The Occam's razor Job
by Valawenel
Summary: There are many ways to protect your Team. Even when they don't want to be protected. First story in "Texas Mountain Laurel" verse. Case fic - canon - gen - Eliot centric.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1.

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Nate was pretty sure that all started when Sophie broke her nail.

As if, at that moment, with who knew which random twist of fate, everything turned on its axes, and their good luck sank deep below their reach. He was even sure, though not completely, that he felt an unexplainable twitch of unease even before he was able to decipher what, exactly, went wrong.

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For the last twenty five minutes Nate had been trying to ignore the drama in the back of the van by concentrating on the late afternoon traffic. They'd finished the job successfully and he was calm and content, and no one's nail was going to ruin that feeling. Hardison and Parker, both in the back of Lucille with Sophie, were also trying to avoid falling into the trap. Hardison was typing, and Parker stared blindly at the other woman, who was explaining the terrible scene of her broken nail resting on the dirty floor in that damn warehouse.

_A usual day_, he said to himself. A post – job briefing in the apartment would set their moods right again, and they were almost there.

Eliot escaped their fate by remembering that they had forgotten four cameras in the warehouse. The warehouse was deserted and the cameras were not in danger, they could pick them up tomorrow, but he obviously predicted this doom, and ran back. Going to the office by cab was nothing compared to listening to a desperate woman whining about a broken nail. On top of that, Parker was not happy; she had almost nothing to do, and she was bored. Never a good combination. Hardison's quick typing was proof that the hacker knew the storm was coming, and he was building a shelter to dig himself into.

They were three minutes from the office when Nate's phone rang.

He checked the screen. Eliot.

"Nate, where are you?"

"Two blocks from home. We'll stop and take something to eat, so don't linger. Why the phone, where's your earbud?"

"Smashed. Nate, park the van. _Now_."

There. Twists of fate always struck without warning. "What?" he asked slowly, not yet willing to accept that he knew, the moment he heard his voice, that something was wrong.

"Pull over. Stop the van. Park it. Now." Eliot's voice was calm, he sounded almost pleasant, and with a cold feeling forming in his gut, Nate found a free place to stop.

"What's happening?" he said firmly, listening to the silence on the other end of the line. The silence in the van was echoing.

"Trouble." He could almost see Eliot smile. He turned around and met three pairs of eyes, tense, but not worried. Yet. He put Eliot on speaker phone.

"Care to be more specific?"

"I was interrupted cleaning up the warehouse. Four Chileans. One escaped, so there's chance of reinforcement soon."

"You okay?" Nate listened; Eliot's breathing was low and even, controlled. Too controlled.

"Few bruises and one nasty blow to the head."

"And trouble is...?"

"I provoked them and told them a few things about their obvious mistakes, so they had to tell me how brilliant their plan really is. You know, holding guns, helpless victim, stuff like that...", Eliot's voice became even softer for a moment. "Four weeks of planning and research. Your place, our safe houses, and simultaneous actions... hitter is first, then the rest of the team. They are on the move. You have nowhere to go."

Nate looked down the street. He couldn't see anything unusual but he didn't ask Eliot if he was sure.

"It's a long planned revenge," the hitter continued when he said nothing. "Leave town, immediately, but stay together. And do it now. I'll do the same as soon as I check they're not following me, and join you."

Nate looked at Sophie; her eyes were closed, head down a little. She was listening and he could feel her concentration that analyzed every cadence in Eliot's voice.

So did he. "You don't sound angry or worried. Not even in a hurry," Nate said carefully.

" 'Cause I'm not. This is my job, and I'm simply... doin' it." Another calm smile. "Tell Hardison to do those geeky tracking/untracking things, and make sure no one can trace you.

"This is wrong, man, so wrong," Hardison hissed in the back of the van, reflecting everyone's thoughts, but he was already working, his fingers busy on the keyboard.

"So, when Eliot yells, danger is not big, but when he's calm, something terrible is heading our way?" Parker asked. "And he calls _me_ insane?"

"I can hear you, you know?"

"I'm not leaving Bunny!"

"You don't have to worry about Bunny, they won't even look at her," Eliot smiled again and alarms started going off in Nate's head. One by one. "She'll wait for you to return, darlin'."

Sophie opened her eyes on his last sentence. They were very dark. And very worried.

"Nate." there was something in Eliot's voice, the way he hesitated, that silenced even Parker. "This is _very_ bad."

Nate checked the street again, avoiding Sophie's stare. Thinking.

"When did you say you'll join us?"

"As soon as I check... Dammit, Nate, what're you doin'? I don't have time for your trust issues. I'm not hiding anything, and I certainly won't go hunting Chileans all over Boston. I'm pissed and trying to stay calm!" the last words sounded _almost_ like Eliot. "I have to know you'll do what I tell you. This is my part of the job, and when I say run, _how fast_ is the only thing you should ask. Just do it! It's not a con, it's not a job, it's deadly. They're coming to kill, and trust me, they know how to do it."

"I trust you, and you're right. We'll go..."

"Don't tell me. Just stay together and keep low. I'll find you, I'm already on the road." For a few seconds they could hear only silence. "And Nate..." The lazy smile was back. "Be smart, for a change, okay?"

He hung up.

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"Something's not right." Sophie said softly.

"Besides mad Chilean killers swarming our places?" Hardison murmured.

"He wasn't lying," Nate answered Sophie.

"But he also wasn't telling the truth", Sophie continued.

Hardison's eyes narrowed. "You mean something's wrong with Eliot? Yeah, he sounded a little... off, but, man, the situation..."

"He was talking too much." Nate cut him off. "Can you track him?"

"Yeah." Hardison was already working. "Earbud is destroyed, but all y'all got small tracking devices on you."

"Seriously?" said Sophie.

"You're not supposed to know about them, that's the point. I did it after Parker went rogue with Archie. Never again... Yep, I got him. Here. Moving pretty fast from the warehouse, west. In the cab, I guess, he said he's already on the road. Even pissed Eliot can't run that fast."

"Already in the cab? Then why didn't we hear..." Nate stopped.

"What? Hear what?" Hardison murmured. "You're starting to worry me, and that's not wise. A worried hacker is a slow hacker. What's going on?"

"Track his phone. Now." Nate exchanged glances with Sophie.

"I don't see why..." Hardison's fingers abruptly stopped. "What in hell... His phone is still in the warehouse. And his tracking device is half a mile to the west and speeding."

Nate got up. "Parker, you drive. We're almost half an hour away." He ignored the stares of the others when he sat besides Hardison, letting the thief start the engine. "Take us back to the warehouse, as quickly as you can."

Lucille roared and hit the road. Parker smiled.

Hardison was busy searching his files and collecting data on Chileans. Sophie was, ironically, biting her broken nail in worried silence, if the screeching of tires can be called silence.

Nate suddenly raised his head. "He said he was interrupted while cleaning up the warehouse," he said to Hardison. "Not that he finished searching for the cameras. So that might mean that the cameras are still on and working."

"Already on it." Hardison started typing faster. "No luck with the first one, it's dead. Second is dead as well. Third has power...checking the signal... this one may... crap..." His voice faltered.

"Oh," Sophie gasped.

Three bodies were spread on the floor in the middle of the warehouse, close to the long back wall. Some boxes blocked the view of the third one, so they could see only one leg. Nothing was moving.

Not even Eliot.

He was sitting on the floor with his right hand resting on a raised knee, his back leaning on the wall. There was nothing relaxed in the way he raised his head, and turned it slowly to the left. Checking the door? For a man expecting another attack, Eliot was in the worst position he could find, in the middle of a big empty space, unable to reach and disarm attackers. And they'd be armed for sure; Nate could see a gun near the motionless hand of one of the Chileans.

"Camera four." Hardison said, unusually quiet, and the image switched to another angle, a little closer. They could clearly see Eliot's left hand wrapped around his chest.

The hacker muttered something that sounded like _damnribsagain_, as if he was trying to convince himself that broken ribs, again, were the worst case scenario, but they all knew, even before they saw the large dark stain, that Eliot was not protecting broken ribs.

He was pressing a wound to stop the bleeding.

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For a few seconds they were all frozen, staring down at the motionless man on the screen.

Lucille abruptly jerked and Hardison's screen tilted. Parker's eyes were glazed in the rear mirror and Hardison cursed, quickly turning the monitors away from her.

"Is he dead?" She yelled and sped up. "Call him! Tell him we're coming. Tell him we won't leave him..."

"Parker, just drive."

"Call him! Talk to him! Tell him we won't... we won't let him die alone. Not again!" Parker insisted.

"Again?" Hardison raised his head.

"The mountain," she whispered. "Nobody should die alone. I won't let him..."

"Parker, focus!" Nate said tersely. "Keep your eyes on the road. We need you to get us there, so shut up and do your job. Sophie, call Bonnano. Explain the situation and tell him to go to the warehouse right now. Hardison, ambulance. Report the shooting and victims and send them to the warehouse. We're too far away," Nate explained lower when the younger man looked at him. "And there's too much blood. Lucille's first aid kit is of no use here."

It kept them all busy for next couple of minutes, everybody except Nate. He didn't have to check the time, he knew exactly where they were, and how many minutes Parker bought them with her crazy driving skills. The only thing he could do was watch the gray image that seemed more like a photo than a live recording. He couldn't see any details; Eliot's head was lowered and his face was hidden with whips of hair, making it impossible to see his eyes. Or if he was still breathing. The thing he _could_ see, unfortunately, was that damn blood – too much of it covering his shirt – the _middle_ of his shirt, for god's sake-

A light touch on his forearm stirred him from staring, from waiting. "Bonnano is very close to the warehouse, almost in the neighborhood. He'll be there before us," Sophie reported.

"And an ambulance is already on its way, it seems someone heard gunshots." Hardison's voice was hopeful, so Nate said nothing about that plural, just nodded and smiled.

"You should call him and tell him we are there in ten minu-"

"Sixteen minutes."

"Never mind. Just call him, Nate." Sophie looked at him with an almost timid half-smile that didn't belong to her at all.

He took a deep breath, and picked up his phone.

Many times in Nate's life, time seemed to go backwards, and all those moments were full of fear and desperation. Those frightening seconds that were slowing, like watching Sam's heart monitor, or staring at a pointed gun… Now he had another finalist - hearing the phone ringing, and watching Eliot fail to answer it.

Three seconds.

Five seconds.

After six seconds, finally, Eliot's hand slowly moved, and they all started to breathe again.

Another four seconds passed as Eliot just held phone, not answering yet, just breathing, and Nate knew why when he spoke at last. "What _now_?" Eliot's voice, seemingly without any effort, sounded strong. The usual growl, maybe a little impatient. Sophie and Hardison both looked at Nate, then back to the wounded man who could barely move his hand, confused with discrepancy.

And Nate knew what he had to do. The words came with difficulty, a suddenly dry throat being no aid to the clarity of elocution, but they sounded just as he wanted them to sound. "Parker insisted that we call you again." Calm and normal words, in spite of Lucille's sudden wild jolt. "She said you're up to something. You're not planning any Bunny rescue attempts, are you?"

"Not at the moment... but yes, it crossed my mind. Hardison has secured this line?"

"Of course. He says it'll be wise to throw away that phone later, though."

"Tell him we are coming!" Sophie whispered. "Nate..."

"Yeah, I'll get rid of it..." A pause. Nate's eyes were fixed on the screen, and now he saw his eyes closing. "Don't call again… just in case." Eliot's words sounded just a shade lower. "Gotta go now."

"Take care." Nate nodded and ended the call, watching the painfully slow descent of Eliot's hand.

"What..." Hardison started, cleared his throat, and started again: "What did you just..."

"Why, Nate!" Sophie asked shortly. Angry.

"Because we might be too late," he answered quietly. Sophie stared at him for a few seconds, her lips moving as if she was about to speak, but he saw in her eyes that there was no need for explanation. Hardison, on the other hand...

"He might die," Nate continued conversationally, trying not to look at the monitors. "He might die thinking we're safe, on our way out of town. That he managed to send us away to safety. Or he might die knowing that he failed, that we're going back to him, right into the hands of the Chilean reinforcements that might be coming. What would you chose for Eliot, Alec?"

The hacker shook his head, silent and pale.

"He won't die," Parker said from the driver's seat, and no one had any comment to make on that. Soundlessly, wordlessly, they looked without expression at one another, then back to the screen. Just waiting. Minutes were running at Warp 9.

Nate checked the phone again to see when exactly Eliot's first call was, when Sophie called his name. "Nate..."

The light on the video feed had changed, the warehouse was brighter, as if someone had opened a big door and let daylight in. Chileans would use the small back door, Nate said to himself even before he recognized broad shoulders. Bonnano stopped to let three white clad men pass in front of him, and they completely blocked the team's sight of Eliot. Hardison's growl sounded strangely familiar. He turned the third camera on, but all they could see was that Eliot was now lying down, and the paramedics were doing... something. Bonnano was talking to someone, Eliot or the paramedics, they couldn't tell. One of the paramedics went to check the three Chileans, and it seemed to be a good sign.

Nate waited patiently until Eliot was on a stretcher, and then called Bonnano.

"He's alive, but barely." The detective didn't waste any time. "Bullet in the chest, punctured lung, and dangerous loss of blood. They're preparing everything for operation. Where are you?"

"Near. We'll go directly to the hospital. Patrick, don't tell him that we know, and don't tell him we're coming."

"What's going on?"

"I'll explain later. Any prognosis yet?"

Bonnano hesitated one long second. "He'll probably live."

"Did he say something?"

An even longer pause. "He said 'Hi'."

"The Chileans?"

"Alive, but fairly broken. My men are ready if others show up."

"Thank you, Patrick. See you in couple of minutes."

Hardison turned the cameras off as soon as the warehouse was empty, and Nate leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. "Drive, Parker." He felt Sophie's hand in his, and tried to smile.

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Patrick Bonnano sighed and went to his car, watching the ambulance speeding off to the hospital. Another van, with three Chileans, and a police car, went after the first. This was going to be a very interesting day.

He checked his phone to see if there were more surprises.

First call he received was from Spencer; in short, he asked for an ambulance, his presence, and to tell nothing to his team. Second call was from the rest of the Team; they too asked for an ambulance, his presence, and for him to say nothing to Spencer. The third call was from his informant in the Chilean gang; he also asked for an ambulance, his presence, and to make sure that no one knew he had called.

They were all going to same hospital - all his instincts were screaming about an impending catastrophe. And now he was in the middle of this mess.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

"So, what _did_ he tell you?" Nate asked Patrick Bonnano when the detective stopped talking with his officers, who were securing three injured Chileans. Nate was leaning on the wall with two cups of coffee, waiting. Bonnano took the coffee and settled himself in a plastic chair with a tired sigh and Nate joined him.

Nate wasn't in a hurry. Eliot had been taken in the operation room, and things were in motion, leaving him with nothing to do except worry himself to death. And that was a slow process, and also, one he was used to. He ignored smells and sounds of the large, open atrium full of busy hospital staff and wandering patients. Mingled among them was the rest of a team; Sophie reading a magazine in front of the three rooms where the Chileans were being examined, Hardison in the van parked one block away, trying to find information, and Parker was... somewhere. It was better not to think about her whereabouts right now.

"I was already on the road because he called me," Bonnano said.

"And told you to say nothing to us?"

"You already know, so I don't have to choose whose side I should take. He also said it's a simultaneous attack and you all are in danger. Is it true?"

"Pretty much. He sent us out of town."

"But you'll stay?"

"Yep."

Bonnano took a sip of coffee, and Nate let him think. No reason to hurry, he reminded himself. _So why he was so_… He stopped himself and stretched his legs. Bonnano did the same. Long day for both of them, obviously.

"When he called you," Nate continued, "he wasn't sure he'd be alive when you came, so he filled you with the information about the attack, those guys, and the setup for the rest of us. Right?"

"Right. Nothing much, though, just basic stuff. There is one thing that I have to think over before I tell you, so give me some time. It's not about you, it's my side of the job."

"I understand. What did he tell you when you arrived?"

"He wasn't able to… he couldn't say much. He asked me if I could keep him alive for three days." Bonnano glanced at him and Nate just nodded neutrally. "He is expecting more attacks. The Chileans will not give up just because you're out of sight, and one attack went wrong, you know that?"

"I'm counting on that," Nate said softly.

"I didn't hear that." Bonnano murmured.

"Of course you didn't. I'm not even here."

"Great. So, why three days and not two or four?"

"First day, operation. Second day, probable drug induced coma. Third day, waking up and recovering enough to walk out of here at the end of the day."

"That's ridiculous! He was barely alive when we got there, medics said there was only minutes left. He'll not be able to walk for two weeks, if he is lucky to live through…" Bonnano stopped. "Sorry."

"So, three days, as he said." Nate just repeated.

"Ok, three days. Yes, I can keep him alive for three days, I've already made some arrangements. Three of my retired friends are coming, they'll watch over him. Don't forget that he's in the middle of an investigation, though I made some moves to reduce damage. Officially, he is innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of a gang shooting. No questions will be asked, I filed the papers already. That leaves only one problem. You and the rest of the avengers. Why don't you just leave like he told you?"

"Leave?" Nate blinked.

"Ok, after you find out how the operation went. The Chileans already know he is here. You are just giving them nice opportunity to kill you all without searching. They'll know you are near."

"We are not so easy to find, Patrick. Especially when we are on the job."

"That means you'll tell him you're here when he wakes up?"

"For God's sake, no! He mustn't now. You don't understand…" Nate took a deep breath and then continued. "First, he chose not to tell us he's wounded because he knew we would stay close. He wanted us safe, and safe we shall be… for him. That way he won't worry about us. Second, and more important, if he finds out we're here, those three days will no longer be an option. He is a hitt…" Nate stopped and remembered to whom was he talking. "His job is security and protection, and he takes it very personally. I want him calm and steady, not in a hurry to go back to work. And by _back to work_, I mean go and solve this little problem before the rest of us go anywhere near those guys. Gangs, cartels and killers with guns are not our usual… targets."

"But they are his line of work." Bonnano's words were not a question, so Nate didn't reply, just glanced at his cup.

"Those three days are bullshit, and you know that." The Detective continued.

"Ahem… yes, of course, you're right." Nate smiled, hoping that the detective didn't have the same image of Boston burning that flashed before his eyes when he thought of the fourth day.

The countdown clock was already ticking in his mind.

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Nate didn't know what Bonnano would tell him about Eliot, so he had removed his comm before they talked, which meant that he had to repeat the whole conversation to the team when he sat himself in the corridor with a good view of the main entrance. He held his phone as if he was talking to someone. It wasn't the time to raise suspicion, even when every other man had a hands–free phone.

"And what is that thing that Bonnano has to think over before he tells us?" Sophie asked the most important thing, of course. "Any guesses?"

"Not at the time. Hardison, you have something useful yet?"

"I always have something useful, " the Hacker corrected him. "It will be ready when you return to van."

"Ok. Parker. Where are you?"

"Oh… around." The thief's voice was muffled. "Not far."

"Hardison?"

"I got her; she is… with you?"

"Precisely, 4 feet under. Why? I'm doing my research. This place is amazing."

"I have the blueprints, you don't have to go through every… mwah, just go and have fun," Hardison sighed, sounding anxious. "Nate, what's the plan?"

"What plan?"

"You don't have any idea about… solving this shit?"

"Hardison, we're in the Phase One – we sit tight, be absolutely invisible, and wait for Eliot to come out of surgery, and then to wake up, keeping him safe and watching out for other murder attempts. Phase Two comes after that – taking care of this shit. Phase Two is something we'll discuss later. Key words are subtle. And waiting."

"Subtle plan?" Hardison snorted. "Baldric, you wouldn't recognize a subtle plan if it painted itself purple and danced naked on a harpsicord singing 'subtle plans are here again'."

"It's a quotation, right? Better for you it's a-"

"You, think, Baldric?"

"You're even weirder than usual." Nate paused when his words reminded them all why Hardison might be weirder, but Sophie took over before he could continue.

"When can we see him?" she asked. "When he comes out of surgery, he'll be highly sedated, and he won't know we are there, if that is what bothers you."

"No, no visiting. We must avoid all connections, we don't know who may be watching his room, and how. It's no use if we act like patients whole day, and someone sees us visiting him. Bonnano will keep us informed."

The silence on the comms was a clear answer.

"No one," Nate said clearly. "No one is going into Eliot's room. Not through the door or any other entrance. Parker?"

"No one." she said absently.

"No one including you, Parker."

"No one including me," she repeated and went silent. "Wait, what?" she asked, suddenly realizing. "Why?"

Nate just sighed.

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"People, we are in deep shit. This place is a maze. No chance four of us can cover all the entrances in all the buildings. They can enter the main campus in several random spots, and because almost all of the buildings are connected, just walk their way everywhere." Hardison's voice sounded defeated. "We have to wait 'til he gets transported from ED to Surgical ICU, and then we'll be able to set up a decent watch. Now, before he gets moved, it's useless. Just sayin', man, just sayin'."

"Ok, Hardison."

Sophie smiled when Nate said same words, in same resigned voice, for who knows how many times over the last three hours. Parker was nowhere to be seen, and she spoke just a few times, mainly asking Hardison some details about buildings. Hardison, on the other hand, was doing monologues every few minutes. Everyone coped with fear and pressure in their own way, and Sophie knew better than to interfere in that process this early.

Nate was occupied with following the three Chileans that had been placed in their rooms, and Hardison marked their positions on his map. One had a broken arm, the second suffered a concussion and fractured jaw, and the third was still unconscious with broken clavicle and several broken ribs.

Sophie was sitting near main entrance (by the way, cheerful orange was so not appropriate for a hospital), and trying to remember countless faces that were entering. As the afternoon was slipping into evening, she started walking around. Later hours meant less people, and sooner or later someone would start asking questions about her endless waiting.

And it really had been endless.

"Listen to this: 'For more than 70 years, patients from around the world have come to our division for surgical care. We are also a major referral center for complex thoracic conditions and previously unsuccessful surgical treatments.' Sounds good. Do you want me to do a search on the doctors, and see is there anything we can use?"

"No, Hardison, that won't be necessary. Get some rest."

"Rest! Are you fucking kidding me? I see when my work is not appreciated, you know I can see that!" Hardison sounded really angry, Sophie could feel that in his voice; and Nate was, on the contrary, as calm as she rarely could hear him.

"I know what's going on; you think my information is useless. And you know what? I don't care! But I will not bother you with that any more, I'm going offline. If you want to talk or ask for some _information_, use the phone!"

Static in her comm showed her that he really disconnected himself from their intercoms.

"Hardison, don't be stup-"

"Let him be, Nate. He'll calm down. Where are you, by the way?"

"In corridors around operation rooms. Bonnano is here, I think they called him, so we might get some news soon."

Now she understood why he had sounded so calm and almost like he was boring.

Her own fear, buried deep with a sheer power of will, now started to dig its way out. In the first hour of waiting, she managed to suppress it with rage. Need to strangle that damn idiot was good and cleansing, but very soon it started fighting with need to hug him and tell him that everything's going to be okay. Suddenly, there were so many things that she had never told him, and she should, and last hour was intense torture full of unspoken monologues.

Those three hours felt like an eternity, but now she hesitated, just around the corner, trying to retrieve her calm before she joined Nate and Bonnano.

She wondered why Parker was so silent, but then, except Hardison, they all were quiet, lost in their own silences.

She entered a corridor, and first thing she met was Bonnano's smile.

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Nate was standing near Bonnano, relaxed, but he held his cup of coffee with both hands. Sophie remembered to smell it later. Bonnano's voice was echoing in her earbud as she approached them.

"No, they can't say anything certain right now, but they seemed pleased with results. He's already in SICU, room 304, third floor. Frank will watch after him till dawn, then Eric comes."

"Eric with C?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Never mind. Did they tell you any long term prognosis?"

"Nope, but they usually do it after the second day, when patient is conscious and they can do tests. And, about those three days… he's on the chest tube. There's no going out of here till they remove it, unless he drags all equipment with him."

"It depends on how heavy that equipment is." Nate smiled shortly.

"And, more importantly," Sophie said. "If he removes it, will it cause any damage?"

"He has a hole in his chest, and that thing is stuck between his ribs, draining air and fluids so he can breathe. No, he isn't going anywhere, that's for sure. One thing less to worry about."

"When do they expect him to wake up?" Nate asked.

"Some time tomorrow. I told them to call me at any time, because he's under his, ehm, job name, and no next of kin is listed. Daniel Crane, is that it?"

"Yep, he is Crane. It won't slow down Chileans, you know that?"

"I know. But Frank and Eric might."

"You told them about us hanging around?"

"Just as much as they needed to know. Worried friends, incognito, helping with watching after him. Sophie, you and the little thief should do the talking with them, I described you. Nate, you and Hardison stay away; I thought it would be better not to confuse them with remembering too many different males. If you have to, tell them that Patrick gave you his golf ball, they'll know who you are. Also, I know one nurse in that Unit, Betsy Roberts; I told her to do anything Eliot asks, however strange it sounds."

"Including removing a chest tube?" Nate smiled.

"She's professional. She'll eat him for breakfast if he would be so stupid to try something like that."

"I saw some real dragons that were turned into butterflies just by his smile," Sophie murmured.

"He won't be smiling any time soon, be sure. So, people, I'll leave you now, and try to get home for very late supper. See you tomorrow."

"Thank you, Patrick." Sophie's smile was warm. She tried to imagine how this might end without his timely help, and she almost shivered.

"It was the least I could do." Bonnano nodded goodbye. "Wait…I've almost forgot," he turned around. "These are Eliot's throwing knife shoulder holsters. I cleaned them. You should take it."

As Sophie watched him, Nate stiffened, his face turning a slack, dead white. He was staring in Bonnano's extended hand that held holsters in plain plastic bag. She took quick step closer, knowing that Nate didn't see Bonnano anymore, but some random nurse, or doctor, who was giving him bag full of toys and small clothes. She couldn't blame Bonnano for this; the detective knew nothing about Nate's dead son.

"You think he won't need his knives?" she asked stepping between them and taking a bag. "They would have come handy, if someone tries…"

"No, Sophie. This is a hospital, after all, and nurses will be curious." Bonnano explained, glancing towards Nate, who was still silent.

"You're right. We don't want them snooping around, do we?" she smiled. "Thank you again, Detective."

"Call me if anything new happens." Bonnano nodded and left.

With what appeared to be as much as physical effort as an effort of will, Nate averted his gaze from the small package.

Sophie kept her face neutral. "I think it's the perfect moment to get us some more coffee. It'll be a long night, with all that patrolling that's ahead of us. We'll have to arrange few sleeping hours for everyone, if we want to function tomorrow… and the day after." she said, working a soothing note into her slightly trembling voice. "Thank God I have sneakers, my feet would just…"

"I know it's not the same, Soph." Nate's voice was quiet. Tired. "It can't be the same. And just in case you wondered, no, I was not taking it as omen of any kind. It was just one lousy moment, that's all."

"I've no idea what're ya talkin' about," she said in her best Viola voice, and Nate had to smile.

"Coffee?" she tried again when he didn't move, still looking at the bag in her hand. It will be stupid to hide it behind her back, she thought desperately.

"No. Give me the bag."

"Why?" she reluctantly gave him the bag, and fell silent when he pulled out the set of knives on two connected leather stripes. The left holster that held two knives was still wet, the leather darker than the rest, and her legs went rubbery when she realized what Bonnano meant by _cleaning_ them.

Nate's face looked clouded as he examined the knives, and she couldn't tell what he was thinking. It was uncomfortable to see him holding something that Eliot wore, and had never let them to touch. It felt…wrong. So wrong, so ominous.

Her stirring of unease grew stronger when he took off his jacket, after checking to make sure they were alone in the hall at the moment.

"No, Nate, you can't-", she bit her lip and didn't continue when she saw something very dark and deadly serious in his eyes.

Static in their comms stirred both of them, Hardison put them online again.

"Nate, Sophie!" The tension in Hardison's voice was very clear. "We've got a situation here."

"Listening."

"Parker's gone."

"What do you me-"

"I mean gone. Off comms. I don't see her, she's not answering, and I don't know where she is."

Without a word, Nate fastened holsters over his shoulders and put his jacket back on.

Outside, night began to crawl its way in.


	3. Chapter 3

This is shorter chapter, because I'm not at home, but I'm working on fourth one and it will be posted soon, maybe next week. Thank you all for your reviews, it means a lot to me. Special thanks goes to Trappercreekd, who did a great job as Beta. And it was not an easy job, because I don't speak English so well. Without her, this fic wouldn't be possible.

_Something was very, very wrong._

_He could feel his heart thumping slowly, painfully in his chest, every beat spreading a numb pain. Moving of that kind was a good sign, he somehow knew, but that pain... with it was connected something important, urgent and far from good._

_Thoughts were light and hard to catch, he couldn't even make himself ask appropriate questions, so he just let his eyes stay closed, and tried to listen._

_Somebody was talking about moving, and things going well; female voice, soft, with a very distinctive tenderness. 'I dated a lot of nurses', he answered an unspoken question from someone who wasn't even there. He couldn't tell to whom he was talking, but a feeling associated with that silent conversation made his heart run faster._

_A female voice continued to talk about morphine, long sleep and recovering, but his mind could focus on only one sentence that continued to reel in his head in circles, slower and slower as something started to drag him deeper into the darkness: the time was running out._

.

.

.

Nate almost choked on his coffee when Harlan Leverage III had entered the van himself, looking very disapprovingly at him.

"What the f-" he barely managed to say when Harlan flipped over, as Parker lowered the painting she held in both hands, and smiled at him.

Hardison and Sophie had the same half angry, half relieved expressions. All three of them had spent the past few hours searching through the hospital campus, hoping that they'd find her doing something crazy or dangerous… but alive. Nate knew that Hardison was so desperate that he searched for her body; he, on the other hand, was half expecting to find a trail of dead Chileans. Nate couldn't guess what Sophie was thinking; she seemed worried, but not as much as the two of them.

"I went home and picked up some stuff," Parker explained as if they needed explanations beside old Harlan. The thief went out again and drug in two large bags.

"You went into the office, knowing there might still be Chileans waiting for us to return?" Nate's voice was dangerously low.

"Oh, they are there. Two waiting in the street, one in the bar, and two situated in the office. They must have some sort of early warning, because two in the office felt secure enough to watch a game. Lights off, of course. I went in and out four times, and they didn't notice," the thief stopped and frowned. "Would it be better if I let them to see me?"

"No!" three voices screamed at the same time.

"Okay then," she shrugged and opened the bags. "I took all the money I could find, all comms and cell phones, IDs and documents, hard drives and your second favorite laptop, Hardison. Even one of the large monitors. Will you please go to the cab and take the rest? And pay him?

Hardison obeyed immediately, but stopped for the second to give her bone crushing hug.

"Don't do this ever again, girl. Ever!"

"What?"

"Disappear without telling us where you are? I thought… all sort of bad, bad things. You don't get it, don't you?" he sighed and went out.

Parker stood there for few seconds, obviously rethinking what he said, and Nate knew better than to intercept that process. So relieved that he couldn't feel anger anymore, he waited patiently until she shook her head, and went back to examine second bag.

"This is important." She emptied the bag on the floor of the van. They saw three hand guns, one Uzi, a few hand grenades, Eliot's samurai sword and kitchen knives, one nasty looking axe, along with all sorts of wigs, ropes and harnesses. She took a hand grenade and examined it. "The cab driver said Francisco has never sold broken stuff, but I think we should try those things before we actual use them."

"And how would you try hand grenade, Parker?" Nate said calmly.

"I don't know, you'll think of someth- Oh, Hardison, look! A hand grenade!"

Hands full of bags, Hardison was able only to dodge a little when she threw the grenade at him, hitting him directly above the left eye. "Oooops…."

"What? Did you just hit me with an unstable explosion device?"

"No."

"No?"

"I didn't hit you, you just didn't catch it. There's a huge difference. Same thing with crowbar and E-" She sighed, looking unhappy. "I'm sorry. I won't do that again."

"Bet you won't," he murmured, brushing his brow.

"Hardison, will you please put all these weapons back in the bag again, and seal it… somehow?" Nate politely asked.

"Sure."

"But why?" Parker said. "It's the first time we're working without a hitter, and it doesn't feel safe. _I_ don't feel safe. There are the guys with _guns_!"

"And, when there are guys with _guns_, do we go near them, or we avoid the danger?" Nate said patiently.

"It wasn't dangerous," Parked blinked at him, and Nate suppressed the growl, finally understanding how Eliot must had felt all those years. He also realized that only he could take the hitter's role in the team. Taking care of their safety could be harder than he thought it was.

Sophie was throwing them significant glances, evidently disturbed, but he couldn't guess what she wanted.

"Parker, help Hardison, please." He waited until she got out of the van. "What?"

"Talk to her." Sophie whispered.

"Me? Why don't you-?"

"Because she's more upset than she is showing. The stability of the team is disturbed, meaning her whole world is turned upside down, and she needs a voice of authority to tell her everything is still under control. Just imagine what's the next disturbed thing Parker can- Dear Lord, you brought my shoes? And clothes? Girl, you're a life-saver!"

"Yes, encourage her." Nate murmured and went out to help Hardison with other bags. Clothes and wigs, though, were not a bad idea.

He needed to go back to watch… talking to Parker could wait.

.

.

.

Hardison tried to convince Nate that 3 a.m. was the best time to show them the info he'd collected on the Chileans, but Nate simply said no, and went out. Parker was curious; they didn't actually know why that gang was so eager to kill them. She vaguely remembered mentioning Chileans when they were in L.A, it was connected with Hurley and his money that they were after… but nothing else, as she could remember. Nate was strangely disinterested, Sophie looked tired, and Hardison was fuming and mumbling, so it didn't seem like a good time to start asking questions about anything.

"I'll be in the hospital for next three hours, so you should try to sleep." Nate's voice traveled through comms. "If you can't, I want to know where you are; no more solo actions. Parker?"

"I can't sleep, I'll check the parking lots to see if there's something suspicious," Parker quickly answered, already on her way out. It was difficult to just sit and wait, and urge to do anything was stronger than the weariness.

"Sophie?

"I'll try to rest." Sophie sighed.

"Hardison?"

"Maybe later." Hardison sounded disgruntled.

Parker closed the door behind her and stopped, because the silence from Nate emphasized absence of fourth name and his report.

"All right," Nate said after few seconds of uncomfortable silence, in an uncertain voice so untypical that Parker just stood there, trying to figure out what was the meaning of the sudden heavy pressure that she felt on her shoulders. "I'll call you if anything happens." Nate finished and line went silent.

Parker took out her earbud and put it in the pocket of her shirt; if Hardison yelled and called her, she'd hear and respond, but for now, she didn't want to listen to their silence. Even worse, if they continued to talk, she knew she'd constantly wait to hear Eliot's voice to fill the void that was driving her nuts.

"_Dammit, Parker, it's too much even for you_!" familiar annoyed growl sounded disturbingly real and she almost turned around. She giggled and continued her cautious walk among the parked cars.

"If you think it's too much, wait till I start to answer you," she giggled again. "Erm, wait…I just did, didn't I? Cool."

She knew exactly what degree of annoyance his sigh would have, and what would he say… and she smiled again. Some holes in the conversation could be fulfilled after all, and she put the eardbud back in her ear. Until things went back to normal, she'd have her own hitter to tell her she's crazy, exactly when she needed it.

In meantime, she had to think about the kitchen knives, safely hidden in her jacket, and their appropriate use.


	4. Chapter 4

Sophie felt like she had just closed her eyes when she felt Lucille moving. She pulled the blanket over her head, already used to the odor she thought would keep her awake; machine oil combined with rotten cabbage. She vaguely thought about waking up; Hardison was driving and that meant something, but she was exhausted and couldn't force herself to open her eyes. They stopped, they moved again, driving backwards, stopped, and few minutes later Lucille was slightly lolling because of Hardison's walking. When he opened the door, light hit her directly into eyes, finding its way beneath the blanket, and she growled.

"Wake up, we've to go."

"Where?" she grumbled.

"To shower?"

What? She blinked, totally confused. Showering with Hardison? Why? Was he crazy? And where did he find… She threw away the blanket and sat, looking at his grin.

"I left you a note if you woke up and find out you're locked in the van, but I guess I shouldn't worry about that. I was at an early morning meeting with our landlord. Bought us an office. Two small rooms and bathroom, but it'll be good for now. And, by the way, it's in the Blossom Street – we have direct view at SICU and only 3 minutes to main entrance. I was looking for an apartment, but this building only has offices, and it's important to stay close. We are practically across the street. As much as I adore Lucille, I admit she has some disadvantages when it comes to 24/7 surveillance."

Sophie rubbed her eyes. The sun was bright, meaning she slept far more than the planned 3 hours. "Any news? Nate and Parker?"

"Eliot is still alive, Nate is still son of the bitch, and Parker is still sleeping. I'll put her online later, she was awake all night."

"Sleeping?" Sophie turned around. "Where?"

"Don't tell Nate – she drug a pillow into the ventilation shaft above Eliot's room. It's too narrow to enter the room, so don't worry."

"And how do you know it's too narrow?"

"She told me," he answered innocently. "And I checked the blueprints, of course. Come on, I'm waiting for a delivery, they'll be here any minute."

.

.

.

Sophie closed herself into the small bathroom, drying her hair, and avoiding the army that was marching through the office. Hardison's need for nesting was in full speed; 3 beds, tables, sofa, big monitors, food, and boxes without any visible sign on them. She entered the main room just in time to see the delivery of an enormously big hospital bed. Even Hardison looked a little discouraged when he realized that bed had a manual the size of a Lord of the Rings book.

"We don't know how long we'll have to stay in exile," he said when he saw her smile. "What if he must stay in the hospital longer than two weeks? Or even worse, what if we have to move him too early, before he is fully healed? What if he can't-"

"It's okay, Hardison. You told Nate about this?"

"Yeah, he was here while you were showering; he said we won't need it so long," his grin faded and he turned around to unpack one more computer monitor. He was setting up a workstation on the large table, with two monitors already turned on.

She sat herself on the sofa still covered with plastic, watching younger man working with wires, noticing how sluggish his moves were. He was drained; she was sure he hadn't slept at all. That reminded her that she must drag Nate in here and convince him to rest too.

"I'll call Nate to come and rest for a while." she said when third monitor blinked and started to display police reports.

"I already called him, I need him in the van. Two small monitors are still in there, and Parker's bags. Come, see this." Hardison showed her the largest monitor, now displaying many small recordings. "It took me four hours to hack into the hospital security feed, but now we have all their cameras, and from here we'll be able to monitor all entrances. Unfortunately, overall security is pretty crappy, it doesn't cover Units, or even main corridors, just the exits. And-" Hardison hit the remote to show something black and complicated on the other monitor. "We've got this!"

"This?"

He suppressed annoyed sigh. "If we see someone suspicious, I run him through facial recognition. C'mon, Soph, like you've never seen me doing those things!"

She couldn't tell him she was never paying attention, so she smiled and got up. "You know what, I'm refreshed, and ready to go to find some coffee. I'll help you-"

"Coffee machine should have been here, I don't know why they are late."

"As I said, I'll help you with those bags."

"No, no, no, not a chance, I've already called Nate, he's on his way, stay here!"

"You don't need to yell, what's w-"

"I'm not yelling, I'm explaining." Hardison was waving towards monitors. "Sit here and watch for suspicious people!"

"Okay, but-"

"It's important! Just imagine someone sneaks into the hospital while nobody is watching, and that _can_ happen!"

"Hardison," she calmly said. "You're overselling again. If you want to talk to him alone, just say so, for Christ's sake!"

"Oh? Ok, then, just, yes, just stay here, ok?" He smiled and hurried out.

Sophie shook her head and sat herself at the table. She spent a few minutes trying to figure out which camera was showing which entrance, but very soon she was completely lost. The quality was poor, images blurred; Hardison had lot of experience with those things, and he could probably see everything he needed to see, but her watching was useless. Even if she saw someone carrying large Chilean flag and machine gun, she couldn't tell the team where to go, and what building he was entering.

She went to the window and smiled when she saw Massachusetts General right before her eyes; it won't take long for Hardison to remember that they desperately need a telescope. She could bet he already knew which window was Eliot's room. She peered down, to the Lucille parked in front, wondering what are they doing in there, and why her presence was so unwelcome. As if she needed _more_ reasons to worry.

She had been waiting less than two minutes when Nate stepped out of Lucille.

He rubbed his forehead as if trying to stop a headache, and then slumped on a low wall surrounding the parking lot. Sophie picked up her phone and called him, watching him fishing for his. Her earbud was in the bathroom, but the phone was even better –only he would be able to hear her questions.

"Nate, what's going on?" she asked.

"Nothing important, nothing to worry about. You want some coffee?"

"Nate, I'm watching you. You can't tell the lie to someone who is watching the truth. Yesterday should have taught you that."

He looked up and met her eyes. And said nothing.

.

.

.

Sophie waited until Nate wandered out of her sight, searching for the coffee shop, and then she went to see Hardison. And bad news was coming their way.

The hacker was sitting in the dark van, staring at a dark screen, doing nothing.

"Nate told me," she simply said, sitting next to him.

"He shouldn't." Hardison murmured, clearly not in a mood to speak.

"Why not?" she let slight annoyance creep in her voice, waiting for the reaction that would explain what happened.

Hardison just glanced at her, staying silent.

She was so tired of this _silent macho/lets protect fragile women_ crap! Sophie felt a rush of real anger that almost overwhelmed her control. "Withholding information from your own crew is like coning them!"

"Conning? Just like you're conning me right now, Soph?" Hardison's voice was icy, his own anger almost palpable. "You're fishing!"

"Alec, every single bit of information can be crucial, you know that. We all have to know-"

"You want to know?" Hardison raised his voice. "Ok! I'll show you that crucial information!" He turned monitor towards her.

When the grey image of a warehouse moved, she froze. It was a recording of the previous day, but from the beginning, and Eliot was still walking. She knew what was coming next, and her stomach hurt.

She didn't close her eyes as Eliot staggered when the bullet hit him, and slowly fell to his knees, not even when four men surrounded him. "They shot him from afar." Hardison's voice was cold and cruel. "It was an execution, not a fight gone bad." He stopped the recording when one of them, laughing, kicked Eliot with his foot and sent him rolling over on the floor. One move of Hardison's finger and the laughing face was cleaned and scanned, and displaying facial recognition results. "This, Sophie… _this_ is the crucial information that I was going to give you, just in different format. Words and numbers, results of the scan…not…not all of this."

Sophie stared at the four men circling around Eliot as he was trying to get up. She could see them speaking and laughing, one of them was explaining something, waving carelessly with his gun.

Oh, she knew what Eliot had done to them, how he provoked them with a derisive smile and a glint in his eyes. They were played like he was playing his guitar. She also knew that he calmly calculated how much further damage was acceptable, and by letting them kick him, he arranged them in adequate positions. But her pride was overflown with pain. And rage.

When there wasn't anything useful they could tell him, Eliot whispered something, and the first laughing face instinctively bowed closer to hear what he was trying to say.

"This one got away." said Hardison. "Broken arm, I presume. He's carrying Eliot's tracking device, the one he is not supposed to know anything about. I couldn't see when he managed to… ouch, yes, maybe at this point."

She finally squinted.

"Enough." Hardison darkened the monitor.

"I'm sorry." he said after a short silence. "I should have warned you, and not just thrown this into…"

"Forget it," she managed to smile, although he could barely see her in the dark van. "At least, you have some information that will be useful. What about the other three?"

"I couldn't catch a clear image, they were moving too fast. But we have them here, police identified them. Bonnano will send me everything they've got. I think Eliot chose which one would escape and carry tracking device, that guy must be important."

"You keep an eye on him?"

"All the time. I record his movement, so if he loses that bug, we'll know all places he had been."

"And then what? Send a hitter after him?"

She watched his lips tighten and felt a pang.

"That you'll have to discuss it with our fearless leader, but you'll have to wait until he gets in mood for discussion. And, wait, I forgot, he also needs to check the constellations to see if the stars are in right positions to bless his plans that he is about to produce…when time comes. Eventually."

"I'm sure he has his reasons for waiting."

"Of course he does. And they are all crap." Hardison's voice was sarcastic. He turned away and put their comms on the monitor. "If you don't have anything else to say, I'll put us online again. I have to wake up Parker."

Only Nate's line was green, all the others showed a flat red line.

"Why didn't you take Eliot's comm off the display?" she asked. "He doesn't even have his earbud anymore, and won't have one for a while."

"Because." he flatly answered.

And then, while she stared at the offline status, she finally realized what was wrong, and why Hardison needed to watch the same flat red line every time he checked them and talked to them.

She was uncertain how to solve this; direct approach would result in denial and closing… she had to find some other, longer way to the main problem.

She sighed heavily and curled herself in the seat.

"What?"

"Nothing," she whispered, turning away. She thought about sobbing, or actual crying; tears lowered men's intelligence, but that would be overkill.

"You're not about to cry, are you?" he asked, sounding much younger. "I said I'm sorry for this, and I am, truly."

"It's not…that." The tremble in her voice was not an act. "I know you're all accusing me for what happened to Eliot."

"What!" he was perplexed.

"It's because of me and my whining, you know? He couldn't stand it, so he went back."

Hardison looked uncharacteristically at a loss of words, his face clouded, conflicted. She waited.

"No," he finally said. "No, Soph, he went back because _Hardison _forgot the cameras. It was my job to take care of them, and I didn't do it. It's my fault. I screwed up, and he is paying for my mistake."

She quickly uncurled herself, letting her face gleam. "So, you're the one we must be thankful for all our lives then?"

"Are you nuts?" he backed off.

"Or is it my broken nail? It feels stupid to say thank you to a broken nail, but it surely saved our lives. Naah, sounds better to thank you. You see, if Eliot wasn't attacked in the warehouse, we would all be dead from an ambush in the office and our apartments. Your mistake saved us all."

"I see what you're doing here, and I say it ain't working, no, Ma'am, it ain't!"

"Stop bubbling, you moron. What would have happened if Eliot hadn't called us, and we went straight into the office? We were only three minutes away, for Christ's sake!"

"What if this, what if that… I know, Soph, but still-"

"Hardison," she softened her voice. "The situation is difficult enough even without guilt. Don't make it worse for yourself, there's no need for that. Yes, you forgot the cameras. Yes, I was annoying. Yes, he decided to go back… all of these are just equally important pieces of the puzzle in the very big, and very complicated picture, in which we all are still alive. And mainly unharmed."

"Yeah, mainly. Tell that to Eliot."

"You know him well. The only thing that makes this situation bearable for him is that it was him in the warehouse, and not any of us. You know how it would end if it wasn't him?" she gave him enough time to think of Parker in front of four armed Chileans. She could easily read his tensed shoulders and long fingers stiff on the keyboard.

"So, the glass is half full, right?"

"If you want it to be. It's all about perspective, darling."

He finally smiled. A genuine warm smile, not a forced one. It was time for her exit line.

"I demand oil on canvas of my nail, rested on purple velvet, with a Provance background, the same size as Harlan, to be hung besides him on the wall. It saved us, it deserves it."

"Righhhht…" he tapped his chin. "Where are you going now?"

"Back in the office, I left my earbud in the bathroom. Why?"

He glanced at the bags on van's floor. "Because our fearless leader was too distressed to remember we have things to move, that's why."

And it was too late to escape.

.

.

.

Sophie knew everyone agreed not to see Eliot. She thought she'd be the last person to break the promise, but damn, she needed something to replace those black and white images that were playing in an endless loop before her eyes.

She avoided Nate who was talking to someone in the main lobby; she moved away when Parker, disheveled, still half sleeping, dusty, and clutching a pillow, stomped outside. Sophie walked in few corridors, "accidentally" bumped into few people, and then took an elevator to the third floor.

White coat with ID, loose hair, papers and a professional stare, and Bonnano's cop just nodded and let her pass into Eliot's room, adding yet another reason to worry. She knew she could just tell him she's Bonnano's and Eliot's friend, the cops were warned about them, but old habits were hard to break.

She peeked first to see is he still sedated, and silently went in.

Seeing him in color was almost enough; usually she'd be worried that he was so pale, but after all those grey images he seemed… alive. Sophie didn't look at heart monitor; pure information, no matter how crucial, was not what she was looking for. Ever. Carefully, she placed her hand on his chest, just above the bandage, listening and feeling his steady heartbeat. Eliot didn't move, so she gently removed a whip of hair from his forehead. She could read his temperature on the list, but she needed to feel it.

He was warm. Breathing. Alive.

"Sleep, darling," she whispered, lightly touching his hand, and left.

Now, she could concentrate on the laughing faces. And payback.


	5. Chapter 5

**My apologies to all Chileans that might be reading this.**

**After thorough search on cartels and street gangs, I've learned a lot about that, but I also found nothing about Chilean gangs, especially about Chileans in Boston. I collected all my data on other gangs, took pieces, and created a brand new cartel, combination of MS-13 and Zetas.**

**I'm not very happy about it, but because this is my first attempt in writing fic, I'll allow myself a little sloppiness. **

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Nate remembered well what Sophie had asked him when he showed up at her door in London: _Who is dead?_ He remembered even better how stunned he was for a second. It was not the question that startled him, it was a fear in her eyes. Maybe that was the moment when he realized that they were not just coworkers; the small group was connected by more than duty, fun and joy in screwing over the bastards of the world.

He never had the courage to admit himself what that "more" is, he just acknowledged the presence of the unnamed feeling; when you care and when you _admit_ you care, you're vulnerable. When you care, life takes away everything that you have and love.

He was so tired.

And he needed a drink, desperately.

He was standing near a large family gathered near the front of the SICU; he asked an older member few polite questions while they waited, and Bonnano's cop just glanced at him, assuming he was an uncle or something similar. The cop was sitting with newspapers few meters from room 304; elderly and fat, but his eyes were keen.

If anything suspicious happened right now, Nate knew the deputy's reaction would be routine and fast, without questions, and that could be a problem if he or Hardison where near. Explanations of who they were and what they were doing might result in the loss of precious seconds.

Nate left the small group and went straight to the cop. "Eric, right?"

Eric was standing in the second Nate was about to stop in front of him.

"Patrick told me to tell you I have his golf ball." Nate waited until Eric thought about it, and then nodded. But he didn't sit back down. "He also told you there are two women, Spencer's friends, who are here and are watching him too. They are not alone, there's four of us. I'm Nate, by the way, and the young black man, is Hardison. He's skinny, good looking, and taller than me. If you want to check with Bonnano, go ahead, I'll wait."

He waited while Eric did quick phone call, satisfied that the cop didn't hesitate to check even when he mentioned golf ball. Bonnano obviously called heavy cavalry.

"He'll be on his way to the hospital soon; he asks if he can talk to you. He'll call you when he gets here."

"Of course, I'll be there. Do you need anything?"

"Stay here few minutes, I'll go to bathroom and for some more coffee."

"Sure, go ahead."

It was funny how Nate felt his perspective change when the cop left, and only he was guarding that door; he turned around and checked the family down the hall: they were still the same he spoke with, but now he was trying to notice if there was anything unusual. There wasn't, of course. He sighed, resisting the urge to pour his coffee in the giant plant that was spreading over the cop's chair and the table. It was tasteless, and hadn't had an effect for hours.

Nate was trying not to look at the door of Eliot's room; he forced the others not to visit him, and it wouldn't be fair if he breaks it. In fact, he didn't want to go in there. He, of all them, knew what he would see, and what he would feel, and he was too tired, and too pissed to go through that shit. Not after he'd just seen that damn recording. His part in their group was to make the plans, to organize and control everything, and almost every time, until now, when he watched something on Hardison's cameras he was able to do something about it; to change a course of action, or pull the plug when it was too dangerous to continue. Now, he was forced to just witness, unable to do anything, totally helpless, as some bastards shot his…his…

His mind went blank.

_When you admit you care, you lose_.

"Can I help you, sir?" A soft voice startled him, and he averted his gaze from the door. A young nurse, a beautiful redhead with an angelic smile. She glanced at the door. "Friend of yours?"

"No. He is not my friend." he said slowly, almost whispered. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to continue, but he just stood there, unable to think of anything to say.

"I'm with them," he managed to produce with a slight nod to the family down the hall. "I'm just stretching my legs."

"Oh, all right then, call me if you need anything." She smiled and continued on in the opposite direction.

He sat in the chair and waited four more minutes until Eric returned, and then ran away from that corridor, heading for cafeteria.

If anything, he could bet that the nurse was the most beautiful nurse in the whole Massachusetts General, and of course, she was not only in SICU, she was on Eliot's floor. He wasn't surprised at all.

.

.

.

When Sophie solemnly called and said he was needed in the office, he didn't made the mistake of thinking something new was wrong; he knew what would await him.

He was right, of course.

The monitors were set and ready, and the three of them were arranged on the sofa and chairs in front of Hardison's big desk. They sat patiently, unmoving, seemingly almost relaxed, but Nate could see beneath their masks.

Hardison was on edge, Sophie was calmly pissed, the most dangerous combination, and Parker… Parker was vibrating on a very low and very angry frequency. He was the one who should take care of them, calm them down and concentrate them, but he couldn't do it, not now.

All he could give them was an illusion of doing something useful, no matter that there wasn't anything useful they could do, except guarding one door.

"Standard setup, I see," Nate said coming in, and heading for the chair carefully left for him, just a little distant from the others. For a group of professional manipulators, they were sometimes too easy to read.

"We can't delay this any longer, Nate." Hardison said. "We all have to know what we're dealing with."

"What part in 'one crisis at the time' you did not understand?"

"The last time you said 'one crisis at the time' was at the beginning of First David fiasco! I remember that finished with our office blown up, and we were scattered. And, there were also simultaneous attacks, if I recall correctly! Why, oh, why I'm not delighted to hear that sentence again? Right now?"

"If you don't have a plan, don't worry about it, it could happen to anybody," said Parker. "I do, however, have a plan. I say we steal a hospital. I know we've already stolen one once, but this time for us; we can put those three Chileans on the kidney transplant list if they don't tell us what we want to know!"

"Do you have anything to say?" Nate looked at Sophie.

"I'd like to know what's going on," she said. "I have no idea why Chileans want us dead."

"But I do!" Hardison hissed.

"Ok, I guess we can do it while we're all here, instead of watching the hospital." Nate said pleasantly. "Go on, Hardison. You've got only ten minutes, so keep it short."

"Thank you! Before we start… Don't say anything that would show Eliot we're here, and that we know about him. I'll start recording when I pull info, so I can send it to him when he asks for it."

"What?" Sophie exclaimed. "Have you lost your mind!"

"Hardison is right, Sophie." Nate agreed. "Bonnano is not taking it seriously, but we all know that those three days Eliot was talking about are a very present problem. He gives himself three days, and then he starts… if Eliot plans to do something, he'll do it. And he is planning. Option one: without Hardison's info, he goes to collect it himself. Option two: he goes without any info. Both are equally bad."

"But what if he decides _not to do_ anything because he doesn't know enough about all this? We shouldn't encourage him! It's already the second day, and he isn't even awake yet!"

"I'm afraid _that_ is not an option."

"It's still crazy." Sophie said unhappily.

"Ok, people, let's continue. If you're going to say something about Eliot, raise your hand and I'll stop recording until you're done. OK?" Hardison hit a remote and pulled the information up on monitors. "Chileans, also known as Chileans, because the most of their members are, in fact, Chileans-"

"Hardison…"

"I was just trying to say that they don't have gang name like others do, because they don't need it! Do you know what that Mexican guy back in L.A said when his gang, and the Koreans, were pointing a gun in my face? He said: Never mess with Chileans. I guess we should have followed that advice. Mara Salvatrucha, Mexicans, are one of the most dangerous cartels that operates in U.S… and the Chileans were their armed wing before they split up. Do you know what that means?"

"Killers?" Parker raised her hand.

Hardison didn't answer.

"What?" she asked when they all turned to look at her.

"You raised your hand. Are you going to tell something about Eliot?" Hardison asked patiently.

"No, why should I?" she blinked at him. "You were asking about the armed wing, so I said they are killers. What that has to do with Eliot? He wasn't a member of some armed wing of something, was he?"

"I stopped recording because of your hand."

"Oh, I see… I forgot."

Nate was prepared for this, so it didn't result in another wave of headaches, and he almost smiled. He glanced at Parker, noticing a barely visible, but unmistakably devilish spark in her eye. Sophie was staring directly into monitors, but she was biting her lip, obviously trying to avoid temptation. He put his own hands into his pockets, just in case.

"Split up was bloody, and both sides had a long recovery", Hardison continued, starting the recording again. "Chileans moved their cliques to the north and east, spreading into new territory. It's not known when they arrived in Boston or how many of them are here, but we know why they are here; they completely took over all drug trafficking to Canada. Toronto and Montreal are the main points, and Boston is perfect as a center of their Northern operation. Besides drug trafficking, the Chileans operate through protection rackets, assassinations, money laundering, extortion, kidnapping and other criminal activities. They are also considered by the U.S. government to be the most technologically advanced, sophisticated, and dangerous cartel operating in these parts. Forget about the dirty, tattooed, violent mob… these are only members… their leaders are young, successful and very rich. However, even some members are much less visible and therefore much more dangerous, and they are not only Chileans. That's important part. They take everybody. If you're good and loyal, you're in."

"That means that we have no clue who can come and try to kill E-" Sophie stopped and quickly raised her hand. " -us? You stopped recording, right? Or I was talking too fast, I mean-"

"I'll do some editing later," Hardison sighed and clicked remote. "Continue."

"It could be a blond woman! Nate, we can't watch _every_ face that enters that hospital!" Her words were accompanied with more clicking.

"We can shut the entire hospital down," Parker again raised her hand and Hardison twitched. He stared at his remote, trying to see whether the recording had started again or just stopped, and Nate decided to end this before they start to enjoy it too much."Look, just record everything, and later pull out only important parts. We can't sit here for hours."

"Yeah, okay. I went through every document we had, every little piece of paper, everything, and when I said everything, I mean it, baby, of every job, from Nigerians 'til the last one. That includes not only our initial marks, but their relatives, business partners and associates, enemies, few innocent bystanders… you name it, I checked it. It seems I should have gone through our last jobs first, and saved myself a great amount of time. Because I found him," Hardison pulled up a picture of a smiling Latino man. "In Lonely Hearts job. Our last one. Oscar San Guillermo."

"What? San Gui?" said Parker. "If all Chileans are like him, we have nothing to worry about."

"I don't get it." said Sophie. "He's in jail by now. Is he trying to get even, and how is he connected with Chileans?"

"Nope. He is irrelevant, and he is out of the game. It's important what he _was,_ and he was one of five main Lieutenants in the gang. His branch of work was extortion and kidnapping, and that's why he connected with Meredith, to use her databases for his boss. He was alone, out of town and without backup, that's why we took him down so easy."

"Boring."

"I know, Parker, but it's important. You have to understand the inner dynamics of these gangs; it's all about power and respect. Remember: Nobody messes with Chileans. We did, we took one of their lieutenants, and we're gonna pay for it. Good lieutenants are priceless, 'cause it takes a long time to train one, years and years. And that leads us to _this_ man…" Hardison showed them a picture of middle aged, good looking, skinny guy in gray suit. "May I present you Renan Villacorta… _The Boss_. He is a head of all Chilean cliques on the Eastern Coast, and up North. In Boston, he is the respectable citizen, owner of two hotels, a few restaurants, and three night clubs, and many smaller firms. The FBI has been investigating him for years, and he is still clean, they can't find anything illegal. He also, right before the eyes of every law enforcement agency in the town, runs a whole gang… Nate."

"Yes?"

"Your eyes are not moving."

"They should?"

"Normally, when we come to this part of a meeting, your eyes very quickly scan everything that's on the screen. Now, they show nothing, and you're staring at his left shoe. Am I boring you somehow?"

"I know who Renan Villacorta is, Hardison."

"How? Are you hiding something from us, Nate? Is there any reason you won't do anything about this shit? Is-"

"I researched every possible mark in Boston, for one reason or another, and Villacorta was one of them, that's all."

"Renan is nice name," murmured Parker. "Rrreeeenaaaaan."

"He is not a nice man." Hardison gave him one more suspicious glance before he continued. "I told you about power and respect; these are his main weapons. Lose either, you go down, and you go down hard, as an example. Villacorta has many enemies, all of which would like to see the Chileans fall and free up some space for their business, and he can't allow himself any sign of weakness. Those who oppose him, and that sometimes includes only refusing to pay a racket, are dead. That's a message to all his rivals. Now imagine him not reacting to someone putting his lieutenant behind the bars? He may as well shoot himself. Power and respect; he loses both at the same time. He has four more lieutenants, if he still hasn't found a replacement for San Gui, and trust me, they are all on our trail." He pulled up a picture of Villacorta with four young men, sitting at a table in some restaurant; they were all wealthy looking and respectable; only one has a small tattoo on his neck. "You probably wonder how I got this picture, weren't gang meetings supposed to be secret? Well, Villacorta sends many messages. This is just one more; every day, at the same time, he takes lunch with his lieutenants on the open terrace of _Estrella_, his famous restaurant, right under the nose of his rivals and the police. I'm invincible. I don't even think of snipers, or bugs, or… whatever. You are so unimportant, that I don't even have to protect myself from you. And it works."

"Well, this is not good," Sophie murmured. "This time, our mark is something different than our usual ones."

"And he won't stop." Hardison shut the monitors down, leaving only Villacorta's picture on the biggest one, and sat at the table. Nobody said a word.

"So?" asked Parker.

"It's… nice." Nate answered. "Good job, Hardison."

He expected him to be mad, to yell, or try to argue, but the look that the young man gave him was a surprise. Hardison was frightened; not by Chileans, but by his waiting.

"What's going on, Nate?" he silently asked. "I understand if you can't come up with something against this man. This… situation is bad for all of us. I know that. But I don't understand why you don't even try to think of something."

All three were scared of his inactivity and refusal to make a plan, he figured out while he was watching them. And it wasn't fair of him to make this worse than it should be.

"Maybe we should grab Eliot and run." Sophie said softly. "There's no point in staying in the war if we can't win."

"I've never said we will do nothing… I just said we can't do anything _yet_." He stood up, and looked at three worried faces.

"Yes, you said that Phase One is waiting for Eliot to wake up, and keeping him safe. Phase Two comes after that," Hardison said steadily. "But why? How many times did you have five or more plans at the same time, without any problem? What's stopping you from concentrating on the mark _while_ we wait here?"

"We can't do anything yet. We mustn't. Yet. You just don't understand…" Nate began, then went silent.

"You're scared," Sophie whispered.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I know who we are fighting with." Nate said with a deep sigh. He went to the table and sat on it, then smiled when he saw their eyes widen. It was easy to talk now, when he decided to tell them. "Our opponent, ladies and gentleman, is not one of our usual marks. He is a highly motivated professional, and he is also on the war path. Very often, that combination is unstoppable. He is also an unpredictable enemy. To survive in his field of work, you have to be the best; some people has a sixth sense… this one has a seventh. It's called _Day after tomorrow you'll try to track me, so I'll stop you today and save time_." He glanced at Villacorta's picture and turned his back to him. Then smiled again. "He also has a strange ability called _Suitable application of Murphy's law, unleashed all over the place _– very effective with large groups." He saw questions forming in Sophie's eyes, and nodded. "All of this I have learned while I was trying to catch him, a while ago. And I have also learned one more thing: never, ever, let him smell your fear."

"I didn't know you chased Villacorta", she said. "You've never mentioned…"

"I wasn't talking about Villacorta, Sophie." Nate replied softly.

The silence fell hard, as he expected. Hardison rubbed his neck. Good, it wasn't fair he was only one with a constant headache.

"You don't mean… you're talking about Eliot?"

"I am. Villacorta is not our Mark. It's not his actions that we must worry about when making a plan, nor his moves or motives. He is irrelevant for now. And that's why, Hardison," he turned to frozen hacker, "I said we can't do anything yet. Because we have nothing to work on until he wakes up, and makes his moves."

"But…"

"But?" he repeated after Sophie. "Eliot is going to solve this before we get the chance to get ourselves into the trouble. We can't stop him, don't fool yourselves. If we try, it will just make him disappear. We must stay put, and that way he will think he still has enough time; if we show ourselves now, he will quicken everything, and I don't have to tell you how dangerous that could be for him. I'm waiting for him to wake up, and give us some chance to forebode some of his plans. Once I have any idea about his plans, I'll be able to make something against Villacorta, because the most important thing is not to interfere with Eliot's actions. That could get us all killed. Once I know what part he'll do, I'll do the rest. Simple as that."

"So, how you plan to guess his moves when we are not supposed to know about the hospital?" Hardison asked wearily.

"Nobody says we can't talk to him. We will simply call… shit!" he closed his eyes, angry at himself.

"What?"

"Call him! Now!"

"Are you crazy? He is sedated-"

"Yes, but we don't know about it, don't we? He is paranoid, Hardison…. How long it'll take 'til he figures out nobody called him while he was sedated, but we called him when he's awake? Call him, now!"

Hardison hit a speed dial and let it ring. "Disconnected. We don't even know if he has a phone in his room."

"He does." said Sophie. Then quickly smiled. "It's logical to leave personal belongings in a nightstand, I guess."

"I'll call him later again."

"Nate, please… Eliot is not a fool. He is real and practical, more than any of us. He'll soon know he is not able to fight. What he can do at all, when he won't be able to walk?"

"I don't know what he is able to do. And _that_, Soph, is the problem here, which we must solve."

"You're creepy."

"Thank you, Parker, you too."


	6. Chapter 6

6.

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.

.

When Bonnano called Nate and told him he was at the hospital, Nate left the other three in the office and went to meet him. With Bonnano and him just a minute from the SICU, there was no need for them to patrol, and they could eat and rest for a while.

"I have paper work to do with the hospital administration, but I wanted to talk to you first," Bonnano was wasting no time. "Remember I told you about something I had to think about before I told you? Well, I did my thinking. It's better for you to know, than not know."

Nate sighed. "That sounds very… soothing."

"It depends," Bonnano smiled, and pulled something out of a big envelope.

He gave Nate a picture of a handsome man, around thirty, in green shirt with red bandana; his dark hair was braided, and beneath a heavy gold chain around his neck, big tattoo was showing. "He was one of four that attacked Eliot."

"You mean, tried to kill Eliot," Nate corrected him. "He is important?"

"Yes, he is. He is known as Fernando – it's his street name. He's well known to every policeman in town, for robbery, assault, murder and extortion. He is one of the most dangerous street thugs that the Chileans have. Confident and silent, able to do anything they ask of him."

"But?"

"But, his real name is Randall Coddington, and he is an undercover cop. So undercover, that even the nearest circle included in that information thinks he is only an informant, nothing more. Ten years ago, as a rookie, he was a researcher in the Boston Gun Project, and later he managed to infiltrate himself in the Academy, one of the largest gangs on Boston Territory. The Mexicans and Chileans came after that, and the Chileans took over almost all the minor gangs, turning them into their cliques. He stayed with them. He never tried to become more than a simple member, but lately he was given an opportunity to become something more. We were still discussing that matter when this shooting happened, and I think his cover will be blown before it all ends. Transferring him will be the best solution; as far from the Chileans as we can get."

"Why do you think he'll be compromised? He has the same status as the rest of attackers. In a day or two they'll be moved."

"The fourth one escaped, and he is not sure what Cuchillo, the Knife - that's his name - thinks of it and what conclusions he'll draw. When Chileans are in the game, it's better to be extra careful."

"You have so good undercover agent, and you haven't took them down yet?"

"All we managed to bust were a few irrelevant street members, and stop a few extortion rings. Villacorta can't be reached from our level. Even the FBI can't do anything, and they are attacking from the other side. It took them almost a year to find out who Villacorta's accountant is, hoping they'd get their hands on his books and take him down Al Capone style: taxes. But nothing. That guy, Trev Steel, gave them anything they've asked for, with a broad smile, and invited them to come any time they want when they've left."

"Is he _so_ good?"

"The FBI and IRS worked on his files together, and they couldn't find anything illegal. And we all know that Villacorta washes the drug trafficking money through his legal accounts. Frustrating."

And Bonnano really looked frustrated. He was playing with the envelope, thinking, and Nate said nothing, waiting for him to speak.

"You are all still here?" he finally asked. "In that van of yours?"

"Nope, in an office nearby. Why?"

"The city is brewing, Nate. I think you have to reconsider your staying here. Eliot was right when he told you to leave town. The hunt is on. Streets are watchful."

"It seems we are the safest right here, then."

Bonnano shook his head. "The entire horde of hyenas is gathering as we speak. Very soon, they'll start to circle around the hospital, watching for their way in. Their scouts are already here. No, you're not safe here, at least of all places."

Nate went silent. Parker would say Bonnano's metaphors were creepy, but nevertheless, it didn't mean they were not true.

"It's all so quiet," Patrick continued, stirring his drink absently. "With time, you learn that when the city goes quiet, when everything just stops, when silence is the only thing you can hear on streets at night, you have very little time to prepare yourself for the chaos and blood, and bodies scattered all around." He raised his eyes and looked at Nate. "Have you ever seen a pack of hyenas attacking their prey? I've seen that."

"If you decide to leave…" Bonnano continued, deadly serious. "…do it before the night."

.

.

.

Hardison and Sophie listened to Nate's conversation with Bonnano from the office, but every time Hardison opened his mouth to comment, or just say something to Nate, Sophie would lift her hand and stop him. After few minutes he wasn't even trying to interrupt; out of the corner of his eye he watched Sophie who intensely stared at the blank wall, listening.

When Bonnano left Nate, she stood up and went over to the window. Hardison shifted uncomfortably, and then glanced to the bathroom door, where Parker was singing something in a low voice. The sound of running water soon stopped.

Bonnano's words scared a shit out of him. Hyenas, hello? Horde of hyenas…great. Just great. When he finally went to sleep, he knew what he would dream about. Thank you, Lieutenant, thank you very much. He couldn't blame Sophie for being restless, but he couldn't help but ask himself were they thinking of leaving. Nate too sounded uneasy with Patrick, as if he finally understood the depths of shit they were in.

When Sophie turned around he saw that her eyes were hard and dark.

"Hardison, turn our comms off for a minute," she said, and then paused. "Would you please run the recording of the warehouse again? This time on the large monitor, and with a best quality you can achieve?"

"I would rather n- is that necess-" he stuttered. He thought she was upset about the hyenas. This didn't sound like disturbance at all… "Why?"

"Just do it."

He sighed and complied, and she sat beside him at the table.

"Now, please, watch those four, and tell me which one is the cop, and which ones are the gang members."

And he understood. He studied four men circling around Eliot, laughing and kicking him; which, by the way, didn't help in his tries to forget all about those hyenas… and he couldn't tell the difference. He put the recording on replay, sharpened everything that could be sharpened, but still, he couldn't tell which one was acting.

Sophie touched her ear and Hardison connected them with Nate again. "Nate, we need to talk."

"Not now Sophie, I'm following two guys that are wandering through the corridors, and getting closer to SICU with every circle. Is something-"

"No, it can wait. Continue."

Hardison disconnected them once again, and they both watched the recording for the fourth time, trying to find some answers.

One small hand reached between their shoulders and turned off the monitor. Hardison flinched when he realized from the stricken look in Parker's eyes that she had been standing there for some time, and that she saw everything.

"Parker, darling-" Sophie quickly stood up, but thief shook off her hands with a violent jerk.

"What else are you hiding from me?" she whispered.

"We're not hiding anything, it just wasn't necessary for you to get disturbed without…"

"I'm already disturbed!" she screamed. "So fucking disturbed, and so fucking angry, it just… hurts!"

"Trust me, darling, we all-"

"Trust? Funny you chose that word, Sophie… because it's all about trust, always!" she pointed at the dead screen. "He trusted us too, right? Right? He fucking trusted us so much that he couldn't even tell us he's dying!"

"You're missing a point," Hardison cleared his throat, glancing around in search for any sharp objects. "He did what he always does – removed us from danger. Trust has nothing to do with-"

"But it has," she whispered, her voice almost broken. "It has, Hardison. Don't you get it? He couldn't trust us to do the right thing, not even in this situation. Not even for him."

He opened his mouth to speak, but then realized there's nothing he could say. She was right.

"And we don't trust him, either," she continued. "Because if we do, we would do what he said, trust his judgment, and leave town," she slowly turned around and took her jacket. Her hand was visibly shaking. "So we end up here, hiding from each other and deceiving each other." She glanced at monitor again, then looked at Sophie. "How… how someone can die for someone he doesn't trust?"

Sophie was studying her; Hardison hoped the grifter was preparing calm, gentle, soothing words that would wrap the thief in a protective armor until she settles back down. But Sophie smiled, not gently at all. "How someone can go to the cinema with someone who wasn't in the mood for cookies?"

"What?" Parker gasped.

"Or, even worse… how someone can go to the pub with someone who likes cats?

"You're insane."

"Those who go to pubs are dog people, Parker; liking the cats is not the right thing for them to do."

"There's something seriously wrong with this team," Parker whispered and stomped out.

Hardison stood up to go after her, but Sophie's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Give her some time. She needs to sort it out."

"What? Dogs and cats? What was that all about? A distraction?"

"Trust is cheap and misused word, often used by people who don't understand importance of basis on which you build it." Sophie's voice was hard, she was deadly serious. And she wasn't smiling anymore. "We don't do _trust_, Hardison… it's for teenage secrets. We do _the best_. Only problem is that we have five definitions of _the best_. And all five are correct. Just not for everybody, and not at the same time."

"Are you there? Sophie?" Nate's voice interrupted him in answering her, and he put them both online again so Nate could hear them.

"We're here," said Sophie. "We watched the recording again, and Nate… that Coddington is deep in this. He switched sides, you must tell Bonnano to start questioning all information he gave him."

"Patrick trusts him, and knows him. What's wrong?"

"Listen to me! I do people. I read them, I study them, I know what are they thinking and how do they feel. Those four were equally enjoying that… fight. A cop, no matter how deep undercover, would show some sign of hesitation, discomfort, maybe he would even try to find another way, trying not to raise suspicion, but he would _show_ something!"

"If a victim was already fatally wounded, and they thought Eliot was, wouldn't he just go along?" Nate asked thoughtfully. "When there's nothing he can do? I mean, why he would risk his life for someone who is almost dead and can't be saved?"

"Sophie is right," said Hardison. "A cop wouldn't kick a wounded man. All four were included in the fight. At least, when he saw Eliot knocking the others down, wouldn't he stop and tell him who he is? Or just try to run?"

"He's dirty. He was there to kill Eliot, willingly. We must tell Bonnano."

"Tell him what? That his cop, in a fight that Bonnano knows about, was _smiling_ while he was playing Chilean killer who enjoys being a killer?"

"And Nate is right too, Sophie. You can't just go and accuse someone of murder without any evidence."

"So, collect some!"

"Evidence? What am I, bloody Horatio Cane? I can't just…" Hardison went silent. "Wait… ok, there's something I can do, but I can't promise any results. In fact, even if we get some results, it'll be only about his connection to the Chileans, and guess what? He _is_ connected with them."

"What do you have?"

"He is cop, he's not really arrested, so he'll have his phone, maybe even a gun. I'll go as a technician and check medical equipment or something in his room, and clone his phone. I can't however, take his gun, do tests, and tell you whether it is a gun that shot Eliot."

"Okay, do it."

"Nate, Hardison will be at the hospital, you should come here and rest," Sophie continued. "I'll join him soon."

Silence.

"Nate, man, she's right; I can do a few more hours, I used to stay awake much longer than this when I played games. You have to sleep, I think tonight might be a little busy, if you know what I mean."

"Great," Nate said. "And if they try to kill him, what you two will do? Stop them? They are after you too, dammit!"

"The same thing you would do… alert Eric, call hospital security, and run," Sophie said. "No one is here to stop killers, we are here to see them _before_ they attack, and prevent that. Besides, if you sleep now, I promise I'll wake you in five hours, and you'll be on before the afternoon, ready for the evening, refreshed and able to think. If you do not sleep, when you hit the floor, you'll be out for two days. Eliot would be delighted to know that."

"Okay, enough! I'll come. You two come here. Where's Parker?"

"She, uhm, went for a walk."

"Any particular reason?"

"She, uhm, saw the recording, and, uhm, didn't took it so well."

"And you two didn't ... never mind. Just come here."

.

.

.

Nate could swear he had just closed his eyes when his phone rang, but his watch told him he had slept over two hours.

"Nate? You're in the office?" Parker said in small voice. "I'm down here. I can't get in, I don't have a key. Come down."

"Coming," he mumbled getting up and searching for his shoes, and then froze.

Key? Parker actually mentioned a key, that disdained word, in the same sentence with _I can't get in_? An automatic lock on the entrance would take her 18 seconds, tops. Why didn't she just lift a ring, or wait for someone to get in, if she was trying not to raise suspicion? It was an office building, every minute someone was entering…

Well, if someone was holding a gun at her head, she did choose the right words to tell him that. Nate opened a bag full of weapons and found a gun, put on a jacket and went straight to the back entrance.

It wasn't guarded, and nobody suspicious was standing there, so he went around the building, heading for the main entrance.

There wasn't a Chilean with a gun at her head; Parker was sitting on the bench near the stairs, alone, and her eyes seemed to be twice as large as their usual size.

Nate checked their surroundings once more before he went near.

"What happened?" he asked gently. Her dark jacket was torn and dusty.

"It was all okay at the airport, but now I'm dizzy and I couldn't walk anymore, and I think I can't get up," she blurted in one breath. When she turned to him completely, he saw a purple mark next to her eye.

"Hospital or office?"

"Office. I'm bruised, not broken. And the bullets just grazed me."

Nate slowly exhaled, keeping the smile on his face. "Okay. Let's move off the street."

Parker just raised her arms, waiting. For a second he stood there, hesitating, but when he leaned down, and let her wrap her hands around his neck while he pulled her on her feet, it felt so natural that he didn't know why he was hesitating at all.

She could walk slowly, but she swayed a little and he had to support her. By the time they entered the office, she was visibly limping.

"Bullets first." He sat her on the table and took off her jacket, preparing a first aid kit.

"There," she rolled up her sleeve, revealing a long gash beneath her elbow, that was still bleeding. "If I go to the hospital, they'll ask questions... I think they know how to recognize an arm grazed with a bullet. The rest isn't so nasty, just a minor cuts and bruises; I had to jump out of a car and roll over the street, and my knee and elbow hurt. I scratched my palms, too."

"Ok, from the beginning, Parker. I'll wrap this up, it doesn't need stitches, it's not so deep. Stay still and talk."

"I went for a walk to… clear my head, and then I remembered Lucille. Parked in front of a building. It's like a sign, we are here, come for us, isn't it?"

"Well, now that you mentioned it…"

"So I took the registration plates and threw them away, and went to the town center to buy some big stickers, you know, delivery of something….it hurts."

"I have to clean it," Nate shook her hand off. "Don't move, and don't touch. Did you just say '_buy_ stickers'?"

"I, I… I wasn't in the mood for stealing. You have to be happy to steal, or it isn't worth it. I decided to be careful, that's why I didn't go shopping near the hospital, just in case, but it was useless." She raised her head, and he could see her eyes were still dazed. "I took a cab, Nate. I took one of the thousands cabs in Boston, and what happened? We were driving just a couple of minutes, and I wasn't paying much attention to where we were going, and he locked the doors and turned into a small street with a lot of abandoned houses."

"Why didn't you call us?"

"And tell you what? Hey, I'm in a locked car about half an hour away from you, I'll call you again when I think of something? Besides, I didn't have a time for that, I had to open the door. It's easier when you're already in, than when you break in." She held her breath when he tighten a bandage on her hand and started to clean her palm. "If you can't trust a cab driver, who do you trust? What was the chance of getting in a cab driven by a member of the gang? One in a million! Or, maybe is so many of them that it would be strange that I didn't catch the right one."

"No, probably not a gang member. Frightened, paid, blackmailed, in debt or just supportive… there are many ways to control the streets, Parker."

"And they do it fairly thoroughly, I must say. We are in trouble."

"Yes, we are," he said as he carefully pulled small piece of glass from her palm.

"They were waiting at the end of a small alley. Five of them. I opened the door when we entered the street, and jumped out. That's when I got these cuts. They fired instantly, not trying to catch me, just kill me…. I barely had time to stand up and run. A few hundred yards away I ran into bigger street, with people, but there were more of them, I saw them in the crowd on the both sides. And they were closing in, and I was already feeling dizzy, and couldn't run so fast, and…" she stopped and took a long breath. "They continued to chase me, and those five from the back street were already behind my back, very close. I thought about running, but then Eliot told me to catch a cab, 'cause I can get away from locked cab again if I have to, but I can't evade the bullets for long. So I caught a cab again. He was right."

For a second there wasn't anything unusual in her words; the two of them often went together on missions. Just for the one second, and then Nate almost cut his finger while cutting the bandage. "Who... he… what the hell…"

"Oh, I mean, Eliot _would_ say something like that!" she quickly answered. "I think it's called assessment of the situation… when you have to calculate what is less dangerous, and do it quickly."

He stared in her eyes, then decided to dismiss that matter completely from his mind, until they finished more important things.

"You came directly here with that cab?"

"Of course not; I went to the airport, walked in the crowd, then took a bus, and walked again three blocks. I was tired, I had to call you."

She called _him_; not Sophie, not even Hardison. He said nothing, finishing the latest cut.

"I did something wrong?" she asked when he put all things back in the bag, and went to open some other boxes.

"No," he answered over his shoulder. "You shouldn't go alone, and without telling us where are you, but after that, you did everything perfectly."

Except she almost died; he added while he plucked open the boxes. And they wouldn't even know what happened to her. Someone would find her tomorrow, or maybe even later, and it would take some time until Bonnano checked the blonde Jane Doe in the city morgue… he took a deep breath, thinking of hungry hyenas.

Many times he had underestimated the dangers of the job and just continued with the con, but this time it was different. They were prey. And for a moment, he wasn't sure if he's doing the right thing. While protecting one, he could lose four of them, something that wouldn't happen if he decided to listen to Eliot. And Bonnano, too. The two of them knew danger, knew death, and knew exactly what they were talking about.

If Bonnano was few minutes later in the warehouse, if those bullets were few inches to the left, if there wasn't any cab near, if…

"Nate?" again that small voice, so uncharacteristic for the thief. He turned around, showing her the things he found.

"Wigs!" Parker wrinkled her nose. "I don't like wigs."

"I don't like when somebody shoots at you because they know how you look. Put on this one." He gave her a black, curly one.

"Is this the same wig that made Hardison scream when he found it on the floor in our office? The same one about which he wrote panicking notes on your fridge, asking for an explanation?"

"I hope not."

"I look like I'm wearing a dead raccoon on my head," she murmured, observing her shadow on the floor. "No wonder he took my taser and tried to kill it."

"Please, if Sophie hears… Here, try this one. Cut at your shoulders, and a fine chestnut color. It will cover your bruise too."

"If you insist," Parker sighed unhappily, rearranging the wig.

"Yes I do." He went to the small fridge Hardison had loaded with food and sodas, and poured her a glass. "Drink this, this poison is concentrated sugar."

She took the glass, and then started to bend her legs, trying the flexibility of her knees. "I think I won't limp."

"Do you want to lie down a little, maybe get some sleep?"

"Nope, I'm going back… I'll find Sophie and be with her. In a minute." She said, though she didn't make any attempt to move, she just sat on the table, swaying her legs. With dark hair she looked like a little Indian, and she gazed at him like she expected him to explain all of this. No, better, like she was waiting for him to solve it, right now in front of her.

"Do you trust me, Nate?" When she finally asked, he couldn't say if he's relieved or not.

"To do what?

"Everything?

"No. Why?"

"Just something Sophie said about cookies and cinema," she murmured. "But you do trust something, right? I mean, there must be a reason I'm in this team apart from being a thief."

This was a dangerous walk on the very edge, and a wrong answer to the unpredictable thief could mean potential disaster, but this was no time for lying.

"Parker, if I'm in danger, and you need to do something to save me, I would never doubt would you do it," he said, trying to chose words. "However, I'm not certain would you do exactly what is needed, would you do just one thing, or seven, would you blow up three buildings as you go along just for fun, or maybe put me in the freezer to measure how long can I endure before I start to curse. No, I don't trust your actions and your ideas… but I trust _you_."

She tilted her head to the left, and smiled.

Though, he wasn't sure if she smiled because she was pleased with his answer, or she just imagined him in the freezer.

He was wrong; he wasn't the right person in this team who could take over Eliot's role and protect them. Parker was the one. He glanced at the bag full of weapons she brought last night. She instinctively knew how to survive, she has been doing it all her life, and she handled all this shit much better than he did. It was shame she had to create the new hitter in her head, to tell her to trust her own decisions.

But, at the same time, she was the most fragile of all of them, and her distress was starting to show. He observed her slumped shoulders and unusual tiredness in her eyes: she wasn't used to this. She wasn't used to caring and being scared for someone. When Hardison was buried alive, the panic and terror lasted only fifteen minutes, though it seemed hours passed, and after that, very soon, the intense fear finished with relief. This kind of deep, prolonged fear, though of less intensity, was more destructive for her… and it would get much nastier before it finished.

"Has Eliot _told_ you that it's crazy and dangerous to show yourself in the city that's searching for you?" he carefully said.

"Yes," her eyes glanced from his.

"Well, that's great. Here's the deal… you know he is always right when he is bitching about danger, right? Henceforth, always listen to him when you think of doing something that can be potentially unsafe. Okay?"

"And that wouldn't be crazy?" she smiled, but her eyes were doubtful.

"We all do crazy stuff, Parker. Is this a harmful crazy, or useful crazy… it's all that matters. Right now, I'd very much like to hear everything he has to say about our safety measures, and our opponents."

She smiled and lifted the gun that he had carried when he went out. "Well, would grumbling about checking to see if the gun is loaded be considered a safety measure?"

Nate snatched a gun from her hand, went to the bag and put it back. He didn't bother to check if she was right… the point was he hadn't checked it when he took it.

When he turned, she was standing right in front of him, inches away. Her hug was quick and clumsy, and then she backed off and headed for the door before he could hug her back. Nate tried to read the dark shadows that he saw in her eyes when she turned back at the door; it wasn't worry, nor fear… it was a mixture of sorrow and pity.

Not so long ago, he thought she wasn't able to achieve so complex emotions; was this a progress or-

"They will kill him." She said quietly, almost gently, like as she was telling him bad news, and needed to prepare him before actual saying it.

"He is guarded, Parker. We'll do anything possible-"

"No. We can guard him from Chileans, but we can't guard him from himself. He'll go out, go after Villacorta, and get himself killed." She forced a brief, painful smile. "Because of us. "

"Parker… listen…"

But she was already gone.


	7. Chapter 7

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>.<p>

Hardison had his own plans, and nobody had to know about them. Surveillance was his job, and he was going to do it properly. Cloning Coddington's phone was a piece of cake; guy was sleeping when he went in his room, and Hardison didn't even had to pretend he was checking whatever needed to be checked, he just took the phone and cloned it. Twenty seconds.

He spend more time with Eric, introducing himself and chatting; they exchanged phone numbers, a useful thing that Nate totally forgot to do. Nate was pretty much out of his role these past two days; Hardison's reserve of understanding was not all spent yet, because every one of them was out of themselves, but they didn't actually have time for drama and remorse. They needed to do something useful, and do it fast.

He sighed, wondering whether all this thinking was really just a delaying of inevitable, as he stared at Eliot's door. He wasn't a coward, no man, and his standing before the door had nothing to do with the drama, nor with remorse, but then… he would rather stand in front whole pack of hyenas than enter that room.

He didn't know what to expect, and he was frightened, but he had to do it, surveillance purpose only… hesitation wouldn't help. So he entered, just like that, as if there was nothing to be feared.

In fact, it wasn't that bad. Ok, Eliot looked like he was the candidate for the next Robocop, all white and motionless and full of wires and stuff, but somehow it seemed surreal… like it wasn't really him, just a scene from some movie.

He moved away from the bed, and checked the room.

He brought only small, simple camera, with no sound; last thing he wanted was that camera mess up sensitive medical equipment. 'How to kill your best friend with camera, live stream,' written and directed by Alec Hardison; it would be a hit on Youtube.

He turned around and looked at Eliot and grey shadows beneath his eyes.

Twice. How to kill him twice with the camera. In two days.

He suppressed a sigh, and quickly checked the room, searching for the best spot; he needed to see both door and the bed. A little shelf beside the window, with a few plants was the best choice, so he planted the camera and checked the readings on his phone. Connected. Perfect.

He returned to the bed. He didn't know anything about _those_ readings, but it was comforting to see green lights, regular beats of the heart, and to hear low mechanical sounds.

But it wasn't fair; they should have been here, waiting for him to wake up, not sitting in some empty, cold office, hiding from him.

"Just don't go all zombie on me, man," he whispered to the hitter. "Just a touch of green in that white and you'll be the perfect walking dead. Pardon my French," he took a deep breath and stopped himself from babbling… somehow, deep breathing didn't help to ease the dull pain in his throat.

The first warning sign he noticed was a slight change in rhythm of one particular beep. He was trained to instantly react to mechanical sounds. One of the lines on the monitor was speeding up. On the other display, several green lines, that reminded him of earthquake readings started to jump…and above all, from somewhere, a low, alarming sound started to ring.

Terrified, he hit his phone, turning the camera off, but nothing changed. Except Eliot's eyelids started to move. Hardison had only a second before he opened his eyes, and he did only thing he could do; he ducked.

The door was on the other side of the bed, too far to reach now, so he pulled himself underneath the bed, silently cursing.

Nurses would be there in the minute, that low beeping sound was obviously a warning for them that patient was waking up… and what then? A tall bed was not a good cover, he was completely visible from everywhere except from the bed.

He messed this up big time.

He rolled his eyes, imagining all shit that would result from this, but then he froze, and looked up again. And he almost chuckled.

Two large kitchen knives were duct-taped right above his head.

He had no time to think about Parker and her ideas of safety and protection, he quietly typed a message to Eric, explaining what to say to the nurses.

When the door opened he could see Eric stopping the nurse for a second, and she then looked right at him. He couldn't tell her age, although her hair was gray, because her dark chocolate face was thin and without any visible wrinkles, but what he could tell with certainty was that her eyes were mad. She marched in.

He waved and smiled.

Hardison tried to imagine what would happen if she asked: Who are you and what are you doing under the bed, what would be Eliot's first reaction… cool, the man would probably snap his neck, all drugged and disorientated.

"I see you're awake, Mr. Crane. Daniel, isn't it?" The mad eyes were only for him, her voice was gentle as she spoke to Eliot. "You're in Massachusetts General, you've been shot. Don't try to speak, and no, do not try to move. I'll remove a mask from your face in a minute. You're breathing on your own, it was only for precaution. Standard procedure after surgery that, by the way, went well. Doctors removed the bullet successfully."

Hardison used her chatting to carefully detach the knives from the bed; sooner or later the nurses would find them, and Eliot would know who put his knives there, and that they were near. He didn't have a jacket so he tucked them in his shirt, cursing wordlessly when cold metal touched his skin.

"No, I said do not try to move. Stay still until I check your bandages; you have occlusive dressing on the bullet wound and I have to see if it is intact. After that you can ask everything you want. Now, I need you to close your eyes, I'm turning on a strong reflector and that can blind you," with those words the nurse kicked Hardison with her foot, and he crawled from underneath the bed, trying to stay as low as possible.

"What day is it?"

He had almost reached the door knob when he heard Eliot speaking; it was barely a whisper, but it was unmistakably his voice, and for the first time since this shit started, Hardison felt it could all end well.

He crawled outside, silently closing the door, grinning. He couldn't erase that grin even when he saw Eric roll his eyes.

"Thank you!" he hugged the cop and ran away, to finally bring the others some good news.

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There were no French zombies staring at him, just a nurse with comforting words and nice smile, but Eliot scanned the small room anyway. She probed at him, explaining the things he'd already knew, gave him ice chips, and waited for his questions. Which he had none of. At least none that she had answers to.

Where did those zombies come from? And why were they French? He almost asked her that, but he thought better of it and kept his mouth shut; he was sure she'd heard a lot of nonsense from sedated patients, but he didn't need hallucinations to be added on his chart. However, real or not, he was thankful for those zombies, because their staring was intense and almost familiar, and it woke him earlier.

When he asked himself who the fuck was Daniel Crane, he became aware of how dangerous his talking might be, 'cause he remembered the false ID from the just-finished job one second after the question. So he stayed silent after asking her about the day, and just smiled.

She raised the upper part of the bed so he was almost sitting now, and that eased his breathing a little. While she was taking notes in his chart, he traced two plastic tubes that were going down from his chest, and disappeared somewhere on the floor. One for air, one for blood; and it wasn't good. He knew he'd have one, two meant that was still too much air in his pleural cavity. And that he now had three holes in his chest, that he must take care of.

She left with advice about resting, calling if he need anything, and all that nurse-y stuff, so he could finally close his eyes and think through all the dizziness and floating in the fog. Between which was a very distinctive difference. The floating was because of sedation; dizziness, at the other hand, was because of the blood loss. His breathing was quick, shallow and painful, but it was expected, as much as the deep seated, tearing pain in his chest. The thing he did not expect, though, was amount of effort it took him to raise his hand and reach for the phone on the cupboard. He stopped and slowly put his hand back on the blanket, remembering that phone was off, and that second he switched it on, Hardison would locate him.

Eliot checked the light coming from the window; the sun was high, it was maybe around the noon, maybe a little later, so not even 24 hours passed since he had been shot. And it wasn't as comforting as it should be. There were hundreds of ways to kill a few people in one day… especially _those_ four people. They had the self-preservation instincts of a puppy, especially Parker and Hardison. Ok, mostly Hardison, he admitted… Parker was more like butterfly on speed. Impossible to catch, but too fragile when stopped. The image of turquoise-blue butterflies flying around lasted almost several minutes before he finally managed to get rid of them, and get his mind under control again.

He had no means to find out if Nate had done what he had told him; they could all be dead by now. They could be killed even if Nate did everything to leave town and find good place to lay low.

If he called them to find out, and they answered and located him, he'd jeopardize all his future plans for saving them, 'cause there'd be no way to stop them from coming. But, if nobody answered his calls, meaning they were all dead, there would be no action that could be jeopardized.

If he _didn't _call them, they'd be like Schrödinger's cat… alive _and_ dead until he checked and found out which. That kind of fear, in long term prognosis, was not so good for both his mental and physical health, which would lead to further jeopardizing his actions…

And for the first time in the past few years, he didn't know what to do. The worst of all, he had a feeling that this stupid situation wasn't supposed to happen, that he somehow knew how to solve this dilemma. Once he got rid of this thick, black fog that was covering every single thought…

He again reached for the phone, and stopped himself again.

This is going to be a fucking _long_ day.

Or, maybe, not, he thought when he heard knocking on the door and then two Patricks entered the room. _Focus, Spencer._ He blinked, and that left only one Bonnano in front of him, but the slow merging of the two shapes sent waves of nausea rushing over him.

"You don't look so bad."

"Have you… have you heard anything about Nate and the others?" he asked immediately, trying to sound as if he was actually able to make a real conversation. _As long as he doesn't mention zombies…_

Bonnano hesitated exactly three and a half seconds, long enough for nine different bad news scenarios to run through his mind. "No, nothing new."

"Any unidentified bodies on the streets in the past 12 hours?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Bonnano sat in the chair and reached in his pocket. "I've brought you a phone like you asked."

"What?" _Damn butterflies. _He had to rub his eyes to see Patrick again, and that simple move _hurt_.

"If you had died on that table, do you know what would be your last words? '… and bring me some cheap phone, without GPS, unable to track, call/message only.' That would look funny engraved, don't you think?"

Now that Bonnano mentioned it, he remembered the warehouse clearly, though some parts were still clouded and mixed together. Bonnano put the phone next to his hand.

"Wanna call them right now?"

No fucking way. He wasn't thinking clearly, his memory was still blurred, and if he called them now Hardison wouldn't need GPS to find out where he was, he would probably tell him himself. Even worse, if he called Nate it would be all over; the man would know everything just by the ringing of the phone. Sophie? Nope, she would materialize at the hospital in a matter of minutes. Parker? Eventually; she could be distracted with words, but even when she was not paying attention at all, she somehow always knew when something was wrong, even before the others. Damn idiots; why he hadn't found some other group, who would be easier to-

"Eliot?" Bonnano was leaning over him. "Are you with me?"

"My brain is still floating in morphine," he said slowly, remembering the question. "And I can feel it shrinking, too. It wouldn't be… a smart thing to do." He closed his eyes, pissed. He now had an untraceable phone, and he couldn't use it until he got his head clean, and that meant a few more hours of fear that would drive him half mad. _Great_.

He opened his eyes again when Bonnano sighed, and when he heard the sound of dialing. The detective was waiting for response with somehow crocked smile.

"Hi, Nate, it's Patrick. Yeah, all well, busy as always… listen, I'm free tomorrow night, so I wondered, how about some poker with the boys? You bring Hardison and Spencer, I have two of my own… the last play was interrupted, and Hardison still owes me fifty bucks," he listened and nodded. "I see… ok, call me when you get back, and we'll arrange something. Of course, you too." Bonnano hung up and smiled. "Alive, and out of town on a job. At least, that was the version for me. Satisfied?"

"For now." The relief was so overwhelming that it almost drug him away again, but he forced himself to stay awake. Patrick couldn't yet be called a friend, although he was on the way to becoming one, and it wasn't fair of him to doubt his words. And he certainly couldn't ask him to check his phone to see if he really had called Nate, just because his paranoia told him that there was something strange in Bonnano's voice.

Bonnano was studying him.

"Want to check my phone, Spencer?" he finally said, smiling.

"Was it that obvious?"

"Nope. But we played poker, and that's the face you have when you analyze your opponent to see if he is bluffing."

"Great. Don't tell Hardison about it."

"Even if I tell him, he wouldn't know how to use it; he's helpless."

"Yeah, can't learn bluffin' on online poker."

"About that nurse…" Bonnano changed the subject and paused, giving him time to follow his words. "Her name is Betsy Roberts, and she's friend of mine. I've told her pretty much everything. It's useful to have someone near, who knows the situation, and can react properly. Her number is in that phone, mine too, and of my friends that are guarding the door."

"Do your friends know they are helping a wanted criminal?"

"I told them they are protecting a member of the team who took down Kadjic and Culppeper for me, when they tried to kill me. You all paid a heavy price for that. For them, it's enough, no questions asked."

But some questions could be asked. A police officer who willingly helps criminals whom he should arrest, can go down very hard. Bonnano already did much more than he ought to do.

"I'm awake now, there's no need for you to get into further trouble. You don't have to do this… I _am_ a criminal, after all."

"Of course you are." Bonnano slowly stood up. No, Lieutenant Patrick Bonnano of the Boston State Police stood up. And took a step closer. The change was visible even through the fog that surrounded them. Too many times different investigators were leaning over him, and he learned to recognize them; this was the professional one. _The butterflies flew away, shrieking._ He should tell him that it wasn't wise to do that, at least not to stay so close while doing it, but for the moment he couldn't inhale, much less speak. He stayed motionless. Waiting.

"Why didn't you kill those three men?"

"What?" he said through clenched teeth.

"They were killing you. It would be an appropriate response, and clear self defense, too. And you _are_ just a criminal, after all."

"There was no need to… they were down."

"Interesting," Bonnano smiled and held his gaze on him few more seconds, then stepped back. The threat faded and he could breathe again. The pain was back too, as the adrenalin started to fall.

"Hey, don't do that…that… cop crap on me again!"

"I won't, you're soon going to be able to move," Bonnano grinned. "Besides, Betsy said your blood pressure was too low," he glanced at the monitors. "Well, it looks like it's taken care of."

"I need a plant." When he said it, he almost instantly knew he had no idea why he said it, only that it was important. He rubbed his eyes again, pissed at his inability to think clearly, and pissed because of the pain that the movement had caused again, and... yes, that was it. Something about the pain. Adrenalin, pain, plant, pain... it would make perfect sense later, but for now he had to trust himself, and believe that some tiny part of his brain knew what a hell it was doing.

"A plant?" Bonnano politely repeated.

"One of them," he nodded at the shelf by the window, and Bonnano, without word went there and brought him one. Texas mountain laurel, he recognized it immediately. Lovely little tree, though a pretty strange choice for an indoor decoration. He didn't know why he was able to think about that particular plant, and not be clear enough to find out why he needed it… okay, maybe the three Bonnanos with three plants were a slight hint; this time he didn't even bother to focus. "Put it here, close, on the cupboard," he managed to whisper.

"I won't ask why."

"Have no idea… I'll know later. It's an important plant."

"I'm sure it is," Bonnano quickly confirmed. "You know what, I'll call Betsy now… she said-"

"Betsy also said that you have five minutes, no more," a female voice from the door startled them both; the nurse was standing there and watching them with a disapproving stare. "Get out."

"Call if you need anything," Bonnano waved and went out.

"You – sleep." Betsy pointed a finger right between his eyes, and Eliot wondered what happened with the gentle voice that he remembered… this version sounded like a drill sergeant. He quickly nodded, not trying to smile, it wouldn't work this time.

He waited until she closed the door, and prepared himself for one more turn of disturbing 'what ifs'. He desperately needed to think, to sort all out in his head, but the fog swept over him before he could fight it.

Thick and black fog.

One medium-sized French zombie, walked from left to right across the room.

No butterflies.


	8. Chapter 8

8.

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The ringing of the phone woke Nate again.

"Um, Nate… you're still sleeping?" Hardison politely asked.

"What's up?" he fished for his shoes for the second time in one hour.

"I'm about to enter the office, so I guessed it was better to call you than to startle you entering unannounced."

"So, you called to tell me you're coming, because you didn't want to wake me by entering? Brilliant."

"Nope, I called you to tell you Eliot's awake, the nurse told me. He asked about the day, and he is breathing on his own, no need for an oxygen mask anymore."

"Good. Have you told Sophie?"

"Yes, few minutes ago. That's why I called you, but that's not why I'm coming up."

"What is it, Hardison?" Nate sighed.

"You see, it's just… I'm slightly bleeding, that's all."

"What?"

"Knife wounds." Hardison's response was a pretty much proud.

Nate grabbed a first aid kit and went to wait for him in the main room. Hardison entered, clutching his stomach, with his eyes wide open.

"I must be dying," he whispered, slumping on the chair.

"What happened?"

"I took Eliot's kitchen knives with me, for no reason at all, and I hid them in my shirt. While I was cloning Coddington's phone, I had to crawl on all fours, and those things stabbed me." He opened his shirt, pulled out two nasty looking knives, and revealed two scratches on his lower ribs.

"Yep, I think you're dying. I can see your bowels coming out, here, look, if I pull this side-"

Hardison squeaked and jumped away.

Nate raised his hands, showing him a box of Band-aids. "You're just scratched, Hardison. Put this on the scrapes, and go back to the hospital."

"It burns and bleeds," Hardison murmured examining his skin.

"Well, maybe you're right," Nate sighed, surrendering. "Sit, and I'll take proper care of your… wounds."

He took the biggest bandage he could find in the bag, sprayed the wound, and then wrapped the bandage around Hardison's ribs. "No more knife carrying, okay?"

"Sure. Nasty murderous things."

"These are the _kitchen_ knives, Hardison."

"Whatever. Almost killed me."

"By the way, find Parker, she said she'll be near Sophie, and talk to her. Stay close. In fact, make sure they stay close to you so they… so you can protect them if you have to."

Hardison grinned and jumped on his feet, buttoning his shirt. "On my way."

"And be careful..." Nate added when Hardison was already at the door. "You'll be weaker because of the blood loss."

He went back to the small room, dark with the roller blinds completely shut, but sleeping seemed too far away now. He stared at the ceiling, waiting for the third call, Sophie's. Stabbed or shot, he wondered what it would be.

What the hell he was doing here? Those three were on the loose, without supervision and control, alone there in the hospital, because he couldn't be with everybody at the same time. Because he _had_ to sleep.

Without a hitter, every single step they took was potentially deadly. How the hell did Eliot manage to keep all four of them protected and safe at the same time? No wonder Eliot was pissed most of the time.

He sighed in frustration and closed his eyes.

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The meadow was covered with turquoise butterflies, every square inch full of fragile wings, and he couldn't move. From the other side, four armed men were coming after him, _and he couldn't fucking move_, 'cause every step he'd take would squash dozens of them. He woke up when he lost himself in calculating what would result in less damage; stopping the four men, or letting them continue. Damage for the butterflies, for Christ's sake, not for him; at that point he opened his eyes, woken up by the utter consternation of his own stupidity.

_Just great_. He didn't even like butterflies. The damage their larvae could cause to cabbage was…

_Ok, enough of that crap_.

Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to slowly inhale; the movement of his hand was even more painful than before, and breathing was… challenging. Every breath sent sharp cuts through his chest. What happened with the '_healing and recovery'_ parts of this shit?

He didn't know how long he'd been drifting away, but it couldn't have been too long. The light from the window was bright and painful. Yet something was different. It took him almost two minutes of thinking to figure out it was his ability to think… his mind was clear, there was no fog, and he could even connect two thoughts in coherent order.

When he raised his head it was painful. _What a surprise_. He did a quick check of the room; closed door, no sounds from the hall, no suspicious sounds in the room, window with curtains, no new items from the last time he was awake. The bed was placed in a very bad position, any decent sniper would be delighted, but right now, there was nothing he could do about it, except constantly monitor all the windows of the building across the street which was pretty complicated 'cause the curtains had yellow and orange squares, the perfect trigger for his nausea. He calculated angles and found one close and relatively safe spot which he could use in case of sniper fire.

Which led him to checking his mobility. Heart monitoring clamps on fingers, with a long cord. An IV in the left arm, another one in the right, with tube of a different color, both of them just a little over one meter long. The chest tubes offered more mobility, each two meters long, but with all that together, the best he could do was to stand up right beside the bed. Not even move one step further. Jumping to the safe spot, over three meters away, would be amusingly painful.

_If he was able to stand up at all_.

It was not time for that particular test, not yet.

In case someone opened fire from the door, he was in a much worse position; nowhere to hide, no cover. The only solution was a very quick attack, directly in front of the killer, with approximately 30 % chance first bullet will miss him. The percentage was not bad, it was the _very quick_ part that worried him.

A low bubbling sound was coming from somewhere under his feet, on the floor, meaning he wasn't able to monitor amount of air and blood that was being drained from his lungs. He could see the readings only if he stood up and crouched next to the small device, and that was impossible for now. The bubbling sound had to be enough for now, until he found some other way to monitor his progress. Just for a try, he slowly raised himself, until he was almost sitting, and that small move caused six different pains, mixed and multiplied with waves of nausea. He closed his eyes, the only way to stop room from swinging. He couldn't even think of bending over to the left to peek at the device.

"Well, _this_ needs an explanation." A dry voice, feminine, Betsy, no threat, he recounted slowly, still not opening his eyes. _So much for a very quick attack towards the door_. "What are you trying to do?"

He pointed at the device. "Wanted to see… readings."

She eased him back to lean on the pillows, and he spent the next fifteen seconds waiting for the feeling of falling to pass. Very unpleasant.

"You're just bored, and the medical equipment is not a toy. Anyway, it wouldn't tell you anything important."

He opened an eye, and when room didn't attack him, opened both eyes. He looked at the face that was swimming above him. "Water seal… five or one?"

She eyed him critically, then checked.

"One. It was two, four hours ago. You're doing fine. So, you've seen this procedure before?"

"Not so dangerous knife wound, no lung damage, but some air leaked into the pleural cavity… I had to perform a drainage like this with duct tape and WD-40.

"What?"

"The straw," he smiled. "Narrow but wide enough for the air to escape. I wasn't sure if the bamboo was contaminated with parasites from the water."

"If you're not trained-"

"I'm not. But the nearest surgeon was nineteen miles away, and that walk is pretty hard with a collapsed lung, ma'am."

"Did the patient survive?"

"Still alive," he nodded. _Unless those days finished him off_.

She put a tray with instruments, bandages and dressings in a cupboard, and then did something nurses didn't do often; she pulled a chair up to the bed and sat.

He cautiously eyed her. Grayish hair pulled out of her thin face, dark, mild eyes, a smile. Nothing spectacular. But, her eyebrows were surrounded by lines of wrinkles, that suggested they were often used. He learned a long time ago that intelligence was not hidden in someone's eyes; anybody could make them dull or vivid. It was hidden in the little, quick, betraying reactions of those eyes. As always, the brain could project desirable emotions through the pupils, but there were muscles that gave away the real thoughts and intentions. Nobody could control all the muscles of their face, not even Sophie.

As if affirming his thoughts, she slowly raised one eyebrow.

"How many heads do you see?" she gently asked.

"Just one head," he thought it over, and decided that honesty was the best way to start. "But four ears. You're a little blurred on the edges. Since that's much better than previous time I was awake, and the pain is much worse, I presume you stopped filling me with drugs?"

"No. Your last dose is just wearing out, and it's time for another one."

"No, it's just fin-"

"It's neither your nor my decision. Your therapy can not be changed unless your doctor decides, and his orders are clear. Seven days."

_Yeah, right_.

"You're here to recover, not entertain yourself. The first few days are the worst, and you must understand that you'll be sedated almost all of the time. You have to give yourself enough time to heal, and that means just lie here and let drugs do it for you. And, it's not optional," she pointed to his right arm. "This tube in your arm is PCA – patient controlled analgesia. A safety mechanism built into this pump will allow you to get morphine only every 30 minutes, it is programmed by the anesthetist. If you do not take your dose, pump does it for you."

At that point, after all he had heard was sequence of monotone blah's, he actually started to listen to her. Finally something here that _he_ could control. The only thing he had to do was find a way to turn it to his advantage…somehow.

"The PCA pump allows patients to choose exactly the amount of painkiller they receive, and to balance the pain relief against the side-effects of the painkillers: if you want to be pain-free, you can press the button often; if you want to be more awake, you press the button less often and you will have to put up with some more pain. But, it won't go to the extremes, the pump programming won't allow you to be without any medicine at all, or to overdose. "

"You're trying to say that I'll either be in pain all the time, and unable to move because of it, or half drugged and sleeping, so, surprisingly, unable to move? And if I don't use the drugs, the pump will do it for me, whether I like it or not? And you call that _patient controlled_ analgesia?"

"Pretty much. It's the only way to heal."

"Well that's… just excellent," he purred with the warmest smile he could manage. "Finally some rest."

She smiled. Calmly.

"Certain macho types think that pain is something they have to endure, they don't understand that pain limits their ability to breathe deeply and increases stress levels, which can be extremely dangerous."

"How stupid and irresponsible." He stared at her with full sincerity.

She smiled. Calmly.

"Others think it's better to be in pain than constantly torpid and dull, almost like they're lesser men if they can't act as they're indestructible. They don't understand that moving slows healing, endangers stitches, and increases bleeding."

"I _really_ can't understand that behavior," he continued to stare at her.

She smiled. Calmly.

"Morphine has many side effects. The most dangerous is respiratory depression, then followed by dizziness; hallucinations; drowsiness; exaggerated sense of well-being; headache; light-headedness; nausea; restless mood; vomiting. Often, some men don't tell their nurse about those side effects."

"Fools. Plain fools." There was no point in continuing the eye contact when blurred vision made everything fuzzy. But he tried. Hard.

She smiled. Calmly.

"Many patients don't understand that this pump records every usage of morphine, including the frequency of use, and number of milliliters, and that nurses check it constantly, and if they try to lie to them, it endangers their health."

"As I said, irresponsible indeed." He murmured, trying to stop himself from shifting.

She smiled. Calmly.

"Sometimes, some people tend to put their well being…"

"Okay, enough!" he growled; that way it looked less like a capitulation. That creepy calm smile vanished at last. "I'm aware of all that, Mrs. Ro-"

"Betsy."

"Betsy. However-" _Tomorrow I'm out of here, so it doesn't matter..._ he couldn't exactly say that. "I'll do my best to… to…" Damn, what was in that morphine? Some extract that was making him unable to lie to her? Or it was because her eyes were still so tender, even when her smile was creepy?

"Yes?" she encouraged him.

"Nothing," he murmured. God, an old nurse was kicking his ass in verbal fight; and he yet had to talk to the four pissed sharks that would be waiting for any sign of a lie. No, not lies… for any sign of _strange_ behavior.

"I thought so," she stood up. "Now, it's time to check all of your bandages. Any questions?"

"When will I be able to get rid of the chest tubes?"

"The air leak has almost stopped. If the readings go from one to zero, it can be removed a few hours after that," she answered while she was doing something painful with his chest. "Blood is something completely different. If you want a wound to stop bleeding, you have to wait 'til it heals, right? The lung tissue is damaged, and it heals slowly. It will take more than seven days to stop internal bleeding. It is a slow leak, but it's more dangerous than air, and if you don't have that chest tube…" she glanced at him as if to checking to see if he would faint if she used words that were too direct.

"The lung would fill with blood and breathing would cease?" he smiled.

"Smart ass." So, she had a smile that looked normal, not just that creepy one. "Which reminds me, it's time to give you one more transfusion. You're losing blood all the time, and it has to be replenished."

"One more tube?" Damn, he didn't want to sound so discouraged.

"No, I'll connect it to the existing IV in your left hand."

When she went to fill in his chart, he finally realized what was with those butterflies; no wonder he couldn't get rid of them, when he was pinned down like a specimen under the glass.

It was about time to make some moves.

"You're allowed to take a part time job?" he asked her when she finished writing. "I need a personal assistant."

"If you think you found a way to avoid my orders, you're very wrong."

"I'll have to ask you to do some things for me, and I can't do it if you're my nurse. If you work for me-"

"Patrick already told me to help you if you asked for something."

"If you say no, I'll have to ask someone else… and I would rather have someone who knows who I am, and what's happening."

He patiently waited while she was thinking.

"Okay," she finally said. "But nothing that will endanger your health and recovery.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

He quickly erased his smile when she looked at him. She just looked at him, and there wasn't anything sharp, or cold in her eyes, on the contrary, but he knew with certainty that she could see right through any crap he could think of. Great, one more to deceive and be careful with.

"So, what do you want me to do?"

"I need a mirror, papers and a pen, and you to drive to Middleton after your shift."

"That can be arranged."

"I'll call you later and tell you details, okay?"

"After you wake up and eat your lunch?"

"Yes, ma'am," he quickly answered, just in time to stop that creepy calm smile from emerging.

"Good," she nodded, picked up her tray, and left.

He waited one minute before he checked his loot; a small sterile compress and roll of tape. Soon, as his collection grew, he'd have to find a hiding place, but for now he just pushed it under the pillow.

He checked the numbers on the pump's display; he had eleven minutes before that damn thing shot him with another dose of morphine and sent him to talk with the butterflies again. That morphine pump was his nemesis; if he couldn't beat the stupid pump, he may as well stay here for the next ten days and happily heal himself to death. This was war.

And when at war, strong alliances were the key to success.

He glanced at the Texas mountain laurel on his cupboard.

"Hello there," he smiled. The plant smiled back. "I'll call you George."

And then he dialed a well known number.


	9. Chapter 9

"Unknown number," Nate said, looking at his ringing phone, and Hardison momentarily pulled up his tracking programs. Hardison has just returned from a turn at the hospital, and he was in the middle of carefully arranging five bottles of soda at the side of the smallest monitor from Lucille. The wall would keep that particular monitor half hidden from anyone sitting in front of the table or on the sofa. No one had to know he could control Eliot's room and his door.

Nate was on his way out when phone rang.

"Put it on the speaker phone. I have nothing on it in my database."

"Nate."

Eliot said just that one word. His deep Southern drawl was a nuance huskier than usual, but nevertheless he sounded like always, and Hardison grinned. Relief mixed with anger, and more relief, and more anger, and… damn, it was about time. For the moment it felt like they were complete again, as if those two days had never happened. For a long second Nate was just standing there, caught in the middle of a step, not answering, and Hardison had enough time to start every search he had; not that the results would be very important, but just in case.

"Eliot, I have to check with Hardison to see if we're secure. I'll call you back in minute or two."

"Of course, take your time." He hung up.

Nate was at the table in the second. "Stop all those searches. Put Sophie and Parker on comms."

"Why?" he quickly pulled up the comm interface, and switched on indoor speakers. "We can't be all in one place all the time."

"Sophie, Parker, Eliot just called, I'll call him back in a minute. You're here, with us. Remember, we have to appease him. We are safe, out of town, doing nothing, especially not something dangerous. If our luck holds, he maybe, just maybe, will decide that he has more time for whatever he's doing. Understood?"

"Of course," said Sophie. "Do you want us to come?"

"Nope, it will be over before you get here. Just find a place with no background sounds. And, I'll do the talking. Sophie, no cooing over him. Parker, you're not allowed to speak at all."

"What? It's not fair! Why-"

"Whoa, Nate, slow down…" Hardison raised a hand, trying to ease the tension. He couldn't quite figure out why Nate seemed so worried. "He's not going anywhere, no need to rush. He knows I'm trying to locate him, and it won't be suspicious if it lasts a few minutes longer… especially because he knows I can't find that cheap piece of crap. Just slow down, it will be just a short talk."

"Really?" Nate's smile had a sharp, very sarcastic note. "He will try to see if we have done what he told us, or if I ignored his warnings as usual. Be careful, Hardison. You're not talking with a friend. You are talking to the mark. Worst of all, he is also talking to his marks, and he'll try to find out if we know anything and if we did everything he said."

"Yeah, I get it."

"And all of you, remember this… our main goal is to make sure he thinks we don't suspect anything, he'll be more relaxed. And, at the same time, he must be convinced we're far from danger."

"I still don't understand why I can't sp-"

"Shut up, Parker, I'm calling him."

She snorted and went silent, but Hardison stood ready to disconnect her from the conversation if she blurted out something dangerous.

"Eliot?"

"Yeah, Nate, what's up?"

"_What's. Up_." Nate slowly repeated, in that voice. They all learned to hate that voice. "It's a very good question, Eliot. Let me tell you what's up." A change was not only in Nate's voice. When Hardison glanced at him, he saw his eyes which seemingly without any effort went from tired to mad, and pissed. And _cold_. "We ran away, practically blind, because _you said so_. We left town and everything, found a place to hide, because _you said_ there was a legion of killers after us. Then, because _you said_ you'll come here as soon as you make sure no one follows you, we started to wait for your arrival. Something that usually takes you about ten minutes. That was…" he glanced at his watch. "… yesterday afternoon. Today, in the afternoon, you call, exactly 24 hours later. And ask, cheerfully, 'What's up?' Sophie is worried, I'm pissed, Hardison is pissed _and_ worried, Parker is… Parker…so, Eliot, would you please tell us, if it's not too inconvenient for you…_What the fuck is up_?"

They heard a silence, then a long sigh. "Erm, you see…" Eliot hesitated a second. "You do sound pissed, you know that? Well, things didn't go as well as I expected, I got shot, and I'm in the hospital."

Hardison just blinked, stunned. Why the hell he couldn't just say that right then in the warehouse, rather than wait so long… He opened his mouth to tell Eliot everything he thought of this bullshit, but Nate's hand slammed him hard on the shoulder, almost instantly, stopping his words.

"Nice try." When Nate answered, sounding even colder than before, he realized the mistake he almost made. And that Nate's warnings weren't exaggerated. "Another one, please."

"Captured, taken, left in the desert with no phone?"

"On a horse with no name? Eliot."

"Ok, ok, geez, it's not as if… I'm in Middleton."

"Twenty miles from Boston is not exactly leaving the town-"

"35 minute drive from Boston, close and safe at the same time. And now... wait. Why are just two of you there? I said to stay together and hidden, and let them crawl around-"

"I'm here, just listening," said Sophie. "You should have called earlier, you know? We were worried."

"I know, Soph," he hesitated again. "Trust me, it's the best way… as few calls as possible. Where's Parker?"

"Here. I'm not allowed to speak. So I'm not spea-"

"She is in detention. Don't ask why, I beg you."

"Why?"

"Two words," Hardison murmured. "Sharp objects. Enough, or do you want details?"

"Uh. Enough. Too much, to be exact. By the way, did you get rid of Lucille?"

"What? No! _Why_!"

"Chileans and car bombs, rings any bells? I swear, Hardison, I gotta stop asking you how stupid you can be, it seems you're taking that as a challenge! Do you _want_ to sit on another car bomb? Have you at least remembered to hide Lucille, or change the plates?"

Parker snorted in the background, but stayed silent.

"No, but we are not using her," he slowly said, with all the dignity he could collect.

"She's parked right in front, isn't she?" This time, he actually sensed Eliot's smile.

Parker snorted again, and Hardison mercilessly cut her off the comms.

"It's great to hear you chatting," Nate's annoyed voice rose. "But if you want to catch up, leave the rest of us out of it. Middleton, Eliot. Continue. Somehow, I can't imagine you obediently hid from danger; in fact, when I was trying to figure out what you were doing those 24 hours, Hardison's listening to police channels was of the most help. What were you doing, really?"

"I've spent the most of the past day in the library-"

"What?" Hardison chuckled. "Why the library?"

"Flint's library. And why? How can you ask so stup- Because it's well known that the Chileans are gathering in libraries for the whole day, and you have to chase them out before closing. Dammit, Hardison!"

"Stop it," Nate continued. "So, you were at the library yesterday, but that doesn't explain why aren't you here already."

"Well, you see, I was there, minding my own business, enjoying the books and coffee, doing my hiding very efficiently, when I noticed something Chilean-ish that needed to be checked, and it happened that was that cute librarian with almost-black, curly hair and a suntan-"

"Ok, I get it, move along." Nate carefully let an exasperated sigh into his voice, trying to hide a smile.

"You ditched us, and let us worry, because of a _girl_?" when Sophie's voice rose up, Hardison had to remind himself she knew what was going on, despite how hurt she sounded.

"N…not… exactly. I used a good opportunity to stay away from the streets, motels, hotels and other places that are usually checked first. You always bitch I have to adapt, so I adapted… I'm hidden, safe, and I'm not doing things I would rather do in this situation. Which leads us to things that should be done. Nate… I need you to stay low for two more days."

"Why?"

"Every search lowers its priorities after three days. Today is the second day, and a whole bunch of gang members are still eager to prove themselves. On the third day, without results, they'll become sloppier, maybe even bored, and they'll stop checking the places they have already checked. Day after that, we'll maybe have a chance to return unnoticed. Maybe. If you do it now, you'll get killed."

"I still think you're overreacti-"

"I. Am. Not. It's enough to touch a web on one spot and get noticed; the trap will close. You can't con a fired bullet, Nate."

"Sometimes it's poss-"

"Stop it!" Eliot growled. "Nate, _I'm_ hiding, because it's too dangerous! That alone should tell you I know what I'm talking about! You'll need to trust me on this! Two fucking days… it's all that I ask!"

"Well, you do sound unusually... cautious. And worried," Nate sighed, and let five seconds pass as if thinking. "Okay, two more days of hiding." He said as if he had decided. "But after that, you're here, and we are on the move. Hardison already collected enough data to work with. Parker, this is not a toy, leave it alone." Hardison looked at Nate, confused. "I said, don't… Parker, you'll disconnect us if you press-" With that last word, Nate turned the phone off.

"What was that?" Sophie's confused voice was mixed with the beeping of a dead line.

"He was getting too anxious, and his breathing was broken; a few more sentences and he wouldn't be able to hide he was catching his breath. This should give him time to calm down and continue."

"I hope you know what are you doing," Sophie's voice sounded strangely uncertain, and Hardison shared her feelings. The next two minutes they spent in awkward silence, everyone lost in their own thoughts.

Hardison spent them looking at the jumping readings of Parker's disconnected line; she was tapping her earbud and causing an explosion of static. Pissed Parker somehow scared him more than pissed Eliot...

"Ok, call him again." Nate nodded, taking one long breath.

"What was that?" Eliot asked, and Hardison tried to hear the difference, but Eliot's voice sounded normal; though, he didn't catch any changes in it before. He looked at Nate who was sitting with his elbows on the table, fingers steepled, staring at nothing. Listening with a concentration Hardison had rarely seen.

"Parker. And if you want Hardison's explanation, prepare yourself for five minutes of geek crap. We were on Hardison's data before she cut us off."

"Speaking of which," Hardison interrupted. "You still have your old phone? I can't send you anything bigger than text message on that piece of crap."

"It's disconnected. I've left it at the librarian's place, just in case."

"And, that wasn't stupid?" Nate said sarcastically.

"It's always useful to have one more reason to return. Wait, it's not like I need an excuse to just-"

"Yes, yes, I get it. Okay, as soon as you get your phone back and remember to turn it on, you'll receive all Hardison's data.

"Hardison, I don't need any elaborations – just everything you have collected on a few main players, and their MO. If I need anything else, I'll let you know."

Hardison glanced at Nate; this was the first specific thing that could tell them something about his plans.

"Sure, I'll sort it out. I keep collecting data… it's not there's much to do besides that," he let a slight annoyance in his voice. "Of course, if you're interested in Chilean folk dances, that's different, I can send you tons of that."

"In case you haven't done it already, check San Guillermo from our last job."

"What?" he almost choked. "I've spent five hours of a hard work until I dug him up, and you just say it, like that, by the way, oops, yes, Hardison, he is Villacorta's lieutenant, I just figured it out out from nowhere! _How_? You-" Nate's warning hand landed on his shoulder, and he stopped spitting.

"Who the hell is Villacorta?"

"Villacorta is The Boss," Hardison calmed down, and took a deep breath. "San Gui is…was, one of his five lieutenants, and the main reason why he is after us. How-"

"So, it's all about… nah, never mind, nothing new. Search everything you can on the rest of the four guys. Names, places, cars, MO, police records, everything."

"_How_, Eliot?"

"Chilean Spanish is distinctively accented with the final syllables and 's' sounds are dropped, and some consonants have a soft pronunciation. I knew I'd heard that distinctive 's' somewhere lately, but only this morning I remembered it was San Gui. His English had traces of that accent. Satisfied?"

"Bwah."

"We agreed to stay low for two more days," Nate said slowly. "I expect the same from you."

"I can't be _more_ low than now."

"How can I know you won't do something stupid while we wait?"

"You can't. I thought you used to think of it as one of the many joys of working with us. But, I can promise I'll be patient almost as much as you think I will be."

"It just went below zero."

"Okay… as much as you think I might be."

"Not nearly good enough."

"As fucking much as you fucking think I _should_ be?" This time even Hardison noticed that his voice broke on the last words, and that he inhaled sharply, but Nate just shook his head. They couldn't do disconnecting again. He was thinking fast, but no idea-

"So, Eliot Spencer," Sophie's voice was soft when she quickly filled the growing silence. "Not only have you spent your time off chasing _librarians_, while we thought you were murdered or something even worse, then you think we're all so stupid that we won't notice something strange is going on with you?" Hardison froze, but Nate slightly nodded to let her speak. She went on without giving him time to respond. "Maybe you can deceive those two over there, they're too busy with monitors and guys with guns, but I'm not so naïve. You sound miserable, tired, and like you caught a cold. Did you really think that I wouldn't notice that?"

Hardison counted five heartbeats before Eliot responded though it seemed much longer.

"Miserable?" Eliot hesitated a long moment. "Maybe, Soph." His voice softened and for one second they all could clearly hear it was from weariness. "'Cause, _maybe_, I just miss you all."

She gasped and went silent. "You bastard," she whispered after few seconds, and without warning disconnected herself from their comms.

Nate muffled a curse, quickly got up and slammed the door of the second room. "Nice work, Eliot," he said with a sigh. "I better go after her; she's pissed, you know?"

"And she said something strange is going on with me," he sighed. "Go on, there's nothing so important. If I remember anything, I'll call you again."

"You do that." Nate nodded once again, and Hardison ended the call.

Nate returned to the table and sat, stretching his legs.

"Did he just…" Hardison cleared his throat, still watching comm display with Sophie's red line. "Nope, he can't do that, he never could, he is not… but, did he just grift Sophie? Eliot? I mean, _Sophie Deveraux_? Her?"

"No," Nate said tiredly. "He did not."

"Then what was that?"

"There's one thing grifters can't handle so well, Hardison," Nate said absently staring into Hardison's bottles of soda. "The truth. If you want to con a grifter, don't lie to them, they'll know. Tell them the truth and they'll be lost."

"Oh," Hardison went back through everything that was said, and shut his mouth completely.

He stood up and come back with two glasses. When he poured orange soda in them and threw one of the glasses to Nate, the mastermind darted a nasty look at him. But he took the glass.

"This might be a little harder than I have expected," Hardison confessed after thinking awhile. "I thought we'd be able to quickly draw all his plans from him, with few of your questions… and stuff."

"What part of the "on the war path" you did not understand?"

"You know, 'what part of' is just as bad as 'I've told you so,' repeated ten times in an annoying childish voice."

"There'll be more of it. And don't think I'm hap-"

The phone rang again, this time his own. He checked the number. Eliot's new number.

"Hardison, you alone?" He disconnected Sophie and Parker, just in case, and when Nate nodded, he answered. "Yep, for a few more minutes."

"Is he drinking?"

"No. At least, not yet." He glanced at Nate who was silently listening. "But I'm thinking of starting myself. It's pretty…tensed in here, ya' know?"

"C'mon, it's not like you're in complete lockdown, no one gets in, no one gets out, shotguns at the door and a supply of food and water. You're just trying to stay invisible and hidden."

"Yeah? Sophie asked me to download some scripts from the net; she could use some rehearsing, she said. And Parker is already walking in circles, and they are getting smaller and smaller every hour. Next time I'm going with you."

"There'll be no next time. Listen, call me if he starts to drink or think about hurrying this up, okay?"

"Okay. But I think two days won't be too much to endure."

"And, I forget to tell you in the last call, I need you to create an account under the name Betsy Roberts; she's a nurse in Massachusetts General. Transfer her year's salary-"

"A nurse? Why? Whoa, man, you sure okay? What-"

"Stop it! I'm okay. Those three who attacked me were transferred to Mass Gen, and she'll keep an eye on them, and their visits, for me. Or you would rather that I go back to Boston and do that by myself?"

"Okay, okay, I get it. She's useful, _and_ she's pretty, right?"

"I'm not that lucky," Eliot sighed.

"Which account you want me to use?"

"What? I don't care, the nearest one. Send me a message with the numbers."

"The nearest? You're so hopeless… I bet you even don't know where your accounts are, do you? But, you have a secretary to take care of your money, right? That's what I am for all of you, just a pretty face at the desk, doing silently my magic-"

"Ya' know, you do have one annoying habit."

"One? Just _one_? Unbelievable… and what that would be, if I may ask?"

"Breathing, Hardison… breathing."

And with that Eliot hung up.

Hardison stayed motionless for a long moment, with his fingers on the keyboard, not sure should he be grinning in relief because Eliot sounded so… normal, or cursing for the same reason.

All this time he was sure they were all overreacting, that it was impossible he could do anything after just three days, and he hadn't been so worried about that. But now, the phrase 'clear and present danger' started to ring in his head in a very disturbing way.

He looked up and met Nate's eyes. He was sure that bastard knew what was he thinking about. At least he didn't start with another 'what part of my warnings you did not understand'. His smile was barely visible.

"Notice any mistakes?" Nate asked lightly.

"Like why didn't he ask where we are? That question would mean he's coming to join us. It's suspicious this way."

Nate hesitated. "Old habits, I presume."

"You mean, macho crap?"

"I mean, the less he knows, the less he can tell if he gets caught."

"Oh." He went silent.

"_And_ macho crap," Nate added with a broad smile.

Hardison grinned, but merely to reward Nate's effort. The older man's eyes were not smiling at all.

Nate trailed to the window and just stood there. Hardison was sure he wasn't looking at anything, merely observing his reflection on the glass. His fingers were pressed on his forehead as he was trying to stop the threatening headache.

From that position Nate couldn't see the small monitor, so Hardison quickly turned it on. After such a normal conversation he half expected to see Eliot walking around and packing, ready to go, and it struck him hard when he saw the hitter bent over in pain, head lowered, and his hand raised to his forehead in the same desperate gesture.

And in that moment, as he glanced at Nate to check, he realized what the conversation meant for their team, how many lies and betrayal was piled between those two men.

Hell yeah, they knew. They knew what they were doing to each other, all the way down, and they were fully aware of the possible outcome.

He didn't like the cold feeling forming in his gut; as if mortal danger wasn't enough, they were faced with a deep, deep cut that sliced the Team… they all were bleeding already, and it was going to get worse.

He looked again at Nate's back, and recalled his mad, dry, cold voice; he couldn't tell which one is his real voice, this one, tired and worried, or that pissed and almost cruel one.

He reached over and turned off the monitor, and sat there silent, staring blindly at it. Into the deep, deep black.


	10. Chapter 10

9.

Nate found her in the small café near the hospital, with a glass of Jack warming in her long fingers. Sophie Devereaux could cry on demand, pouring out tears faster and easier than he could smile, but after those tears her eyes would never be red. They weren't real tears, weren't important, so there were no traces left.

Now, she was sitting at a table far away from the windows, with her sunglasses on.

He ordered a coffee and sat in front of her, noticing it wasn't her first glass of whiskey. He said nothing.

"When I disconnected myself, I went straight to the third floor," she said staring at her glass. "I almost went to his room."

"He knows you, and knows all your weak spots. He knew how to distract you from further analyzing his voice."

"Do you think I'm a fool? I know what he had done, and I played my part in it, playing on his move, but Nate," she finally raised her eyes. "He shouldn't be alone in that damn room!"

"Last time I checked, it was his decision," he said. "You don't chase away everyone who cares about you, and then whine for being alone."

"He almost died, you insensitive son of a bitch!" she snapped.

"Yes, Sophie, I'm aware of that fact," he continued calmly. "I'm also aware, now more than ever, that he played on your protective instincts, and no matter how much you think you willingly played the right part, intentionally, you're still…affected."

She looked at him in silence, and moments passed before she finally spoke.

"You're mad at him," she whispered.

"You're not?"

"Mad?" she shook her head. "At a shot, beaten man, who did everything he could to keep his team from danger? Pardon, his _friends_. And is still doing it, further endangering himself?" Her voice was arctic. "No, I'm not mad at Eliot. But you are. You're mad because he dared to do this, to leave you out of that decision."

"I'm mad because of his _one_ move, Sophie, and for reasons I still can't articulate to myself, much less to someone else. That one thing he did… he'll pay for it. All of this that came after that is just… expected from him."

"Because he didn't tell us what was happening the first time he called from the warehouse?"

"No, not that." he said shortly.

She eyed him quizzically, but he just smiled.

A waitress brought him his coffee.

"I spoke with Betsy, she was just leaving when I caught her." Sophie continued when the girl went away. "I asked her about a transfer to some other hospital. She said it would be stupid and dangerous in his condition, but possible. In a day or two, when they're certain there won't be any complications, and when his blood loss is completely under control, it will be possible to move him away from danger, into another hospital, far away from the Chileans. He won't have to go after Villacorta, and he won't be alone."

"You're not thinking clearly, Sophie," he sighed. "Short term decisions are deadly-"

"I'm thinking about ours and his well being, Nate, because someone has to! I'm afraid you're on a totally different track right now, and you are forgetting the only thing that's important. To stay alive, all of us!" she leaned to him, her eyes hard and serious. "I'm thinking of stopping that mad idea of leaving, for Christ's sake! He has to be stopped! Betsy said merely walking can kill him, he's still bleeding, and if he goes out, there'll be no need for Chileans to wait for him."

"You shouldn't speak with Betsy about it; you of all people should know how dangerous is when someone shows she knows too much. He will read the change in her behavior, and he'll start asking himself why, what caused that change."

"I haven't told her anything about his intentions; she told _me_! She said he's already one foot out of the door."

"It wouldn't be the first time for someone to come to the right conclusions starting with the wrong premises."

"She's Bonnano's friend, Eliot will presume they're exchanging notes about him behind his back."

"If you can't beat someone's paranoia, use it against him?"

"When Hardison was giving us info on Chileans, I asked you why we just couldn't grab Eliot and run. Remember that? I still think it's the best solution. No, it's the only one, if we want to survive this."

"There's no running from this, Sophie, we'll never be safe. When you're marked for death, it doesn't just stop if you move to the other town, it doesn't work that way. We should be safe for some time, yes, they'll need time to find us. And one day, maybe next month, you'll go out your front door, and find five guys who'll open fire. One by one, we'll all go down."

"Don't bullshit me, Nate, you know what tactical retreat stands for. We just need some time 'til Eliot gets well, 'til you come up with a decent plan, and then, complete, we will crush Villacorta. We destroyed Damien Moreau, we can take Villacorta down."

"Yes, it would be perfect," he suppressed a growl. "It's just this minor problem of the immobile hitter who needs a hospital with a good thoracic unit; even I could find all the possible locations in three minutes, using nothing but Google, go there and check all the names, false names, files, false files, all the IDs, or simply check room after room 'til I find him, and kill him without a problem, because, imagine that, in some other hospital there wouldn't be an armed guard in front of his door! Even better, I wouldn't have to look for the other four because I would know they are there with him, very close. According to you, they should be in his room, holding hands and singing, so I wouldn't have to search at all, just empty my magazine. We are stuck here, in Mass Gen, do you understand that?" Just when he finished, he realized how bitter he sounded, so he calmed down and took a sip of coffee. "Yes, Sophie, I thought of all that," he continued softly. "And much to your surprise, I'm still thinking about it. I'm thinking about every possible move, in hundreds of combinations. Yet this time, the very important decisions and first moves in this game are not mine, they are Eliot's."

"This…game?" she slowly repeated, and her eyes suddenly sharpened. "And whom are you trying to _beat_ in this game, Nathan Ford? Villacorta or Eliot? Or both?"

"Don't be ridic-"

"It seems Eliot knows you much better than I do. His actions, from the warehouse on, are adjusted to your anticipated moves. He obviously thinks you'll put everybody's lives in danger again just for the thrill of the game, because you need one more victory, one more opponent beaten to dust. It seems he is not wrong at all. Only this time, he doesn't know that it's not Villacorta you're after, that it's him. Tell me something… when you chased him, have you ever actually caught him? You didn't tell us that. Is this your second chance to play, and find out if you can _beat_ _him_?"

Dear God, he was wrong, it wasn't simple protecting instinct, it was _maternal_ instinct, in full charge. And he was in its way. "Sophie, you're distressed and upset, and too emotionally involved right now, and you can't-"

"Yes, I am. So what? Nate, I'll ask you a few questions. And I'll know if you lie."

"Yes?" he sighed.

"Will you let him continue with his plans, just because you want to see what will happen, and to see if you can guess his moves correctly? And beat him? Will you put his life in danger? Will you _risk_ Eliot's life, just for the thrill of the game?"

He stared at her, not quite sure was she trying to confuse him, or mock him, or… but she was sitting, holding her glass with both hands, her gaze steady. Waiting for the answer.

Jesus. Okay, she was scared and miserable, and he _was_ too cold and insensitive, but this was just a little too much.

"The answer to your questions," he started, trying to control his voice, "Would be: yes to all." This time he leaned in her personal space. "Yes, I will put his life in danger. Yes, I will let him continue with his plans, if I have to. Yes, I want to see what would happen. Yes, I want to see if I can guess his moves. And yes, definitely, I want to beat that crazy son of the bitch… to a pulp. Preferably with a baseball bat. And while doing all that to keep him alive, I have to keep all of you safe, and think of Villacorta and his men. I don't have time for being _nice_, Sophie. I'll merely have time to become _cruel_ enough to do everything that needs to be done."

"It won't be so hard. You're natural."

"Enough! Please!"

"Am I dismissed, _boss_?" she throw a bill on the table and stood up.

God, it was going from bad to worse. She never called him like that before.

"You're wrong." she simply said. "You don't have to be cruel to finish this. You just have to care enough."

"When you care, you lose." The words escaped him before he could stop them. And the grifter stopped and turned to look at him again. Wrong words. A very wrong move.

"You know, I still remember every word and feeling from your speech about family, on the _Maltese Falcon_. Do you? Or those were just words, and not feelings? Are we really your family, is _he_ your family? And if _this_…" she waved her hand around them, helplessly, disgusted "…is not the time and place to remember that feeling, when shall it be? At someone's funeral? We are all sick and tired of _words_, Nate."

He sat stiffly, holding his cup, hoping she would leave if he said nothing. But she came back and leaned into him, her hair touching his cheek.

"There's something worse than 'when you care, you lose,' Nate," she whispered in his ear. "When you lose first, and _then_ realize you cared. Don't let that happen to you. Because we can't lose you both."

.

.

.

With just five minutes of practicing, Eliot managed to disconnect all the IV tubes from the catheters in his forearms without watching what he was doing, and put them back in with the same invisible moves. It took him another five minutes to do it with both hands under the blanket, without moving the thin cloth. Another five minutes to do both at the same time, while his arms were crossed. George drank another dose of morphine while Eliot practiced hiding the disconnected morphine tube going into the soil with a slow move of cleaning a single dry leaf.

He had so much to do, and so little time to do it, and the hours that passed couldn't be replenished.

The silence was unbearable.

He refused to turn on the TV, and almost threw out a nurse who came after Betsy left; poor girl was just trying to entertain him. It was hard to be nice when your patient growled at you. She didn't notice she left without syringe.

He was not bored, for Christ's sake! One more hour of thinking and his head was about to explode.

After one more turn of disconnecting, when he realized that pain exhausted him so much that his hands were trembling, he pressed the button and let himself be shot up with one dose. It was a relief to be able to just lie with his eyes closed, and not move. Only problem with that relaxed, floating state was that it brought back the conversation with Nate and the others; that damn talk came back every time his attention slipped. And every time he thought of it, he had to suppress vomiting.

_When things go too easy, something is wrong_. It went smooth, much easier than he expected, having been prepared for much longer negotiations. He got two days too easy, so, either Nate was also aware of how serious the situation was, or he was totally unaware of the same thing. Two opposite things with the same result, and not a single clue which one was true.

What if he was wrong? He had been asking himself that question since he called them from the warehouse, when he realized what was happening, and what _would_ happen… and he still hadn't found the answer. He would know in the end, no sooner.

The funny thing about all this was that no matter how it would end, the play won or lost… he was going to lose. And _that_ bothered him more than he ever imagined it would. He knew it from the beginning, though, and he chose it without hesitation. _But what if he was wrong_?

He couldn't lay down any more, too disturbed to rest, and he pushed himself to sit. That wasn't enough either; he stopped himself when he noticed his hand was already on the railing of the bed, ready to tear it away. He could fool many people, even ones more clever than him, but he never managed to fool himself. He knew, exactly, when his rage took over to suppress despair.

With the drug in his bloodstream, he allowed himself to breathe a little deeper, trying to calm down; and one by one, he tuned out all thoughts of the conversation with the team, of possible ends and inevitable losses, and all the what ifs, returning himself to the here and now. In the room, in the hospital, in the bed. That was the problem he had to solve… everything else, right now, were just distractions. Small steps, one by one.

It seemed he had to choose between two states. First, more drugged and in less pain, with thoughts sharp as overcooked pudding, butterflies, memory loss, constant drifting away and threefold vision. The good thing was that that kind of immobility hastened his recovery, slowed the bleeding, and he wasn't in danger of messing up all the work the surgeons had done. Not a state appropriate for thinking, though… or walking out of the hospital. Trying to choose which of the three doors was the real one could slow him. A little.

The second, less drugged and more in pain. Clear thinking, complete grasp of the situation, able to work on details of the plan that was formed in the warehouse while he was waiting for Bonnano… no, not a plan. It was a clear course of action, he knew what had to be done and why; a plan was something to make up as he went along. The only problem with that state was that he was on verge of passing out if he moved too fast, and simply reaching for the phone was a process that he had to stop three times just because he had to wait for the pain to cease and let him continue. And he wasn't even completely off the drugs, he was just on lower doses. Walking out of hospital? Yes, after ten days. If.

It was the afternoon of the second day, and he still hasn't collected enough courage to actually try to stand up, too frightened of the possible results. That hesitation scared him more than anything.

Maybe he should let a little rage surface again, this despairing shit was too annoying.

Some people gave up too quickly because they looked at how far they still had to go, instead of how far they had gotten. Yet, he wasn't 'some people'. He lived through the initial shooting. He was alive when Bonnano arrived. He survived transport to the hospital. He was breathing after the operation. He was able to sit up and think. All of that running only on a sheer will, nothing else…and he planned to continue that pattern.

Fuck strategy, all that a decent hitter needed was winning in every tactical move he made. Strategy was for masterminds, they enjoyed playing; hitters did not play.

For now, he was winning. It was all about surviving all the small steps that lay before him, so he closed his eyes and concentrated on the next one.

To correctly remember the dozens of numbers that were reeling inside his head, 'til Betsy brought him the fucking papers.

.

.

.

It took almost half an hour for the damn waitress to take away Sophie's half finished whiskey. He was sitting, staring at the golden liquid. Drinking his third cup of coffee.

Nate didn't know why he was still there, and not at the hospital, being useful.

"_You can't con a fired bullet, Nate."_

He had no idea why he was thinking about that sentence right now, after all that Sophie had said; it wasn't a shield from her words, no. More like a distraction, one source of pain to occupy his thoughts and give him a rest from the others. He could clearly hear every cadence in the sentence, but he couldn't catch the exact feeling in the hitter's voice. Something had vibrated in his head at the moment Eliot said it, something disturbing, but he couldn't allow himself to stop and find out what was, he had to continue talking. And then it was lost.

His phone rang, breaking the sentence just at the moment he thought he was about to catch something, and he swore. It was Bonnano; he had to talk to him.

"Betsy just called me and told me she was the courier who brought Eliot two new phones, some expensive fancy shit like his disconnected one, which she brought to Middleton and transferred tons of messages from it onto the new ones, then disconnected and threw away the old one, and brought all that back to Eliot. Then she told me I have to do something to stop him from leaving because he's planning something. Are you all completely crazy, or it's just an impression I get, who knows why?"

"Wait, wait," Nate shook his head, arranging Bonnano's words in coherent order. Betsy, phone, GPS in Middleton, Hardison's data on Chileans, two new phones. Great. Just great. "Erm, where are you exactly?"

"Coming your way. Going to talk to him. I ask again, are you all completely crazy?"

"Yes, we are. And yes, he is leaving, I've told you that the first time we spoke, but you dismissed it. At least, he is trying to find a way to do it. I'm not sure is it possible, though, so it's not time for drastic measures yet." He waited until Bonnano stopped his muffled curses, then continued. "It will be of the most help if you can find out something about his plans, at least what he thinks about all this. I don't think he'll tell you anything, but we can try."

Bonnano growled. "I'm a cop, Nate, when I want people to talk, I find a way."

"You may find this a little more difficult than you expect. But I hope you're right."

"Can you explain something to me?" Bonnano continued. "What if you just go to him, and tell him you're here, hidden, safe, and that you won't do anything, hence there's no need for him to go wreak havoc?"

Nate squinted on Bonnano's choice of words. And yet he knew nothing about the real Eliot, he had never saw him doing his job. "I was thinking about that for a long time," he said. "I suggest you ask him that exact question, hypothetically of course, and then you'll see why I didn't do it."

"Betsy is pissed," Bonnano sighed. "She likes him."

"Yep, I thought it might happen," Nate sighed back. "She has to be extra careful."

"Not like him as in 'you're charming so I'll go easy on you', more like 'I like you so I'll double my efforts in stopping you from doing foolish things'. She has one son in my unit, and another in Afghanistan. Maybe we should let her handle this."

Nate remembered Sophie's red eyes, hidden behind sunglasses. "Maybe… not. But if everything else fails, we'll unleash her, okay?"

"Yep. I'm going now… I'll call you after I talk to him. No, I'll come to you, text me the address later."

Nate put the phone back in his pocket. Phones. Two new phones. And all Hardison's data was now in Eliot's head, being sorted out. Maybe they'd made a huge mistake. Maybe _he_ made a mistake; it was his call.

The water flow in the clepsydra had just started to move, slowly, but steadily, as the countdown clock in his head jumped few hours. He had a lot of watches in his head lately, and they were all saying different times.

He looked through the café window, at the hospital buildings, golden in the sinking sun.

"'_Cause, _maybe_, I just miss you all._"

He ran his hand through his hair, slowly exhaling. He had to get rid of everything distracting, and start thinking about drastic measures.

He had a crazy, drugged hitter with suicidal tendencies, who was gnawing his leash; the professional grifter who cried because the hitter was feeling lonely, more or less accusing _him_ of attempted murder; a thief who was speaking to invisible members of the team, and collecting hand grenades; and the hacker who was just about to break. And when he broke, it would be spectacular.

Yes, it was all about the family. They were all unstrung, frightened, scared for each other, and utterly unreliable because of it. And that's why he couldn't even think about feeling anything. One of them had to stay emotionally uninvolved. Or they all would end up dead.

He sighed and put a comm back in his ear.

"Hardison." he said. "All alive?"

"Yep," Hardison answered.

"What's Eliot doing?"

"Still not trying to get up, he's just staring at-"

Nate took the last sip of coffee, listening patiently to the silence.

"Okay," Hacker finally said. "Yes, I've been in Eliot's room, although you forbid us to go in there. Yes, I put a camera in it, I admit. But how did you know that?"

"Hardison, it would be the safest to put that recording on the biggest monitor you have, if you wanted us _not_ to notice, because nobody looks at your monitors anyway, ever. You're always surrounded with lit screens, and all of a sudden, you have only a small one, turned off and hidden behind the wall of bottles which you always keep in fridge. You're too damn tired to continue, go to sleep."

"I have to monitor security cameras, Nate, can't let-"

"You're making _mistakes_. Period. We'll all come to the office for a while, everybody needs a little time off, to collect strength for tonight. Bonnano is coming here again, on his way home. Betsy called him and told him Eliot's really going out. While he's here, we can rest. Order something to eat."

"Well, how about pizza and a CT scan?"

"What?" he didn't like how that sounded. "What's happening?"

"I keep the monitor off almost all the time, privacy issues, it's not okay to stare at him all the time. Just imagine how would you fee-"

"Hardison! What's happening?"

"Nothing alarming. Just strange. I turn it on every fifteen minutes to check, to see is everything okay, and if there's something new. The last three times he was looking at himself in the mirror. Have they checked his head for a concussion, perhaps? I mean, have you ever, ever seen Eliot with a mirror before? I feel a disturbance in the Force, Nate."

"Damn."

"What?"

"I don't know yet," he sighed. "But I will."

_Tick tock._


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

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"You look bored."

Bored? Eliot blinked at Bonnano when the cop entered his room, not quite sure how he came to that conclusion. He had never been so busy in his entire life, trying to catch the hours that went too fast. When Bonnano came in, the only thing he could think of was he would lose another fifteen minutes to small talk, instead of doing something useful. But then he remembered what he was doing; he carefully raised his hand and pushed a whip of hair behind his ear, as if the mirror was there just because of that.

And _why_ Bonnano was here again, the second time in just one day?

_Shit_.

"Is there something you have to tell me? And don't go with: 'do you want the good news, or the bad news first', or I'll strangle you with this IV even before you start, and I _won't_ be charged for that, being drugged and temporarily disabled."

"No, calm down, nothing new. But, aren't drugged patients supposed to be slow and dizzy, and smiling, and all that shit? You're talking twice as fast."

He glanced at the pump to check the time. _Careful, you fool_. "It depends on when their last shot was, I guess. Don't ask me, this damn thing has a will of its own, and as far as I noticed, the character of an unpredictable goth teenager with authority issues. I'm sure it's fighting its programming and messing with it, just because it can, and just-."

He bit his tongue mentally, and quickly closed his eyes; his damn brain wouldn't slow down, he just continued at the same pace, and letting Patrick see how fast he'd thinking before he came in was not such a bright idea. He should be bored and drugged, not hyperactive. "My head hurts," he said quietly. "Talking sometimes helps to forget about that." Yeah, right. He didn't even _like_ talking. He was starting to sound like Hardison. The horror. _Blame it on the morphine, and try to forget_.

"I was thinking about all this on my way here," Patrick continued conversationally, pulling a chair closer to the bed. "I couldn't help myself, I wondered, what's with you and all the cartels recently. You as Leverage & Associates, not just you. Are you on some sort of job to bring down the Boston cartel society, or is it just a coincidence?"

He opened his eyes and looked at him. Patrick was sitting in the chair, smiling. Wonderful, just wonderful. The last thing he needed right now was Bonnano _thinking_. A cop sitting there and making small talk, that he could endure, no matter how hindering it was; but a cop sitting there and thinking about the situation, well, that was something completely different."You're referring to the mess Hurley brought on our doorstep, with the Mexicans, Irish and Sister Lupe? On our poker night?"

"Yep, don't know why, but it's all clear in my mind; a few weeks have barely passed. Two cartels? And now another one, not something small, but the _Chileans_? What's next, Russians?"

"And you're involved in both events, how sweet. I bet you're happy. Though, I don't think you mind finally putting your hands on old Callaghan."

"Not at all," Bonnano grinned. "His son now runs the Irish, and he is just a worm, the old man was a snake in the family. I can breathe more freely."

"But, you're not here to talk about our jobs, or cartels, or your problems with whatever cartel you have handy."

"No, I'm not." Bonnano grinned again. "I was thinking-" _Not again_.

The door opened after a soft knocking; sure sign it wasn't Betsy. With Bonnano there, there was no chance for him to steal more things from the nurses, and Eliot sighed. He did not have enough time for lost opportunities. But then he looked at the nurse that peeked through the door, and realized that Bonnano's presence ruined yet another set of different opportunities. She was beautiful. Fiery red hair and icy blue eyes. And a tender smile. A _very_ distinctive combination.

"The last check before I leave," she smiled. "Never mind, you may continue, I'll arrange to have the next shift change your dressings." And with that, and yet another smile, she was gone.

He added a few more lost opportunities to his list, staring at the closed door for almost ten seconds before he returned his gaze to the cop.

"_Thank you_." He hissed at the grinning Bonnano. "And stop grinning. You are married. And old."

"You're half dead, so what?"

So what? Lucky for him, he had enough papers, he could spare some to track the nurse's shifts, and calculate when she'd be rotated onto his floor again. Damn. He didn't even see her name, she was too far away. She came in handy as distraction for Bonnano, and if he continued with this, maybe he'd forget about-

"As I said before, I was thinking about something," Bonnano was obviously not easy to distract. "Today is the second day you're here."

"Yes?"

"Tomorrow will be the third."

"That's a very reasonable presumption. But-"

"So I remembered what you had told me in the warehouse, about keeping you alive for three days. You said you're going out after that… and something about doing… something."

"I did?" He was almost absolutely sure he would never say that to him, revealing so much so early. That about three days he remembered, but 'going out'? No way. He slowly pushed himself to sit, trying to analyze the sudden feeling of unease, and trying not to show that moving was more painful than it should be.

"No wonder you don't remember, it was when you told me about the phone."

Okay, that was possible, he couldn't yet recall about the phone clearly. "And what else did I say?" he asked cautiously.

"Nothing that would be more important than this about leaving."

"What leaving?"

Patrick smiled. Calmly.

Fuck, not another round of creepy smiles… were those two related, or this was some arranged thing between him and Betsy, to creep the shit out of him? One thing was certain; this won't be a small talk, Bonnano was here on a mission. Betsy probably told him about the phones and Middleton, and the papers, and he just connected the dots.

Bonnano as a possible enemy was really the worst case scenario in all this, and he quickly thought about all the things he could do to dismiss that 'leaving' from the cop's mind. It took, however, only one look at the man's eyes to realize he didn't have to bother with that, it wouldn't work. Bonnano was not there to find out if he was planning to do something, he was there because he knew. Any bullshit that he could think of would mean nothing to him.

The damage was done, nothing to do here… only thing he could do was somehow lessen the aftershocks. Give him the confirmation, but diminish its importance, hinder it and lull him.

Another person to lie to, another one to betray. The most important thing, another person whom he would lose in the end, and he had just started to realize how much of a good friend Bonnano had become. He more or less hated himself, and hated his life.

"Ah, _that_ leaving?" he smiled cheerfully. "Well, yep, as soon as there's no need for those tubes, I'll go and heal myself in ma bed."

Bonnano shook his head in exasperation. "Give me some credit, Spencer, I don't have time for this shit. Let me repeat a few things you said in the warehouse: simultaneous attacks, head hunt, ambushes at the office and your places, you chased the others away from town, asked me to keep you alive for three days, asked for an untraceable phone and said you'd have to do something before they decided to return. Or something like that. Can we, please, stop playing, and conclude you're up to something?"

"Yep, leaving was the general idea." Eliot sighed. "It still is, don't get me wrong; this situation is not suitable for the type of play my team does so well. This is a different game. But, as you can see, there are some… obstacles in the way. I don't know if it's possible."

Bonnano was observing him with an absolutely unreadable face. "You haven't decided yet?"

Eliot glanced to the window and shadows that were slowly crawling up the building across the street. "It was around noon when I woke up. It's not evening yet. I don't know if I'm able to walk out of here. And I don't know when I'll find out. If it is the third day, great, I calculated perfectly... but I can't tell right now."

"And you're leaving because you think your team will return and get into trouble?"

"Nope, 'cause my team will return and get killed."

Now it was Bonnano's turn to sigh. "What if I brought them here, put them all in a safe house, under my protection for a while, and Nate agreed not to do anything, would you reconsider leaving the hospital?"

"How many fing-" Eliot stopped and took one deep breath; _extremely bad idea_; smiled kindly, and relaxed _his_ fingers. And everything adjacent to them. Which wasn't such a bright idea either, but it was necessary. "Let me put it this way. Them out of Boston – alive. Them in Boston – dead."

"Even if they're hidden, and if Nate agrees he'll wait with his plans?"

"It's not his actions or plans that scare me, it's their being here. Besides, I spoke to him. I got two more days for sure."

"Ok, one more round of what ifs. What if you call Nate, tell him you're here, shot, but guarded, and ask him not to come, but stay low wherever they are, 'til you completely heal?"

"I was thinking about that," he said. "I suggest you ask him that exact question, hypothetically of course, after all this is done, and then you'll see why I didn't do it."

He wasn't sure why Bonnano blinked, surprised, and then shook his head in disbelief.

"What?"

"Nothing," Bonnano grinned. "Just something that will be funny later. So what did you tell them when you talked?"

Eliot stayed silent for a moment, not knowing from where to start. Should he describe how he lied to a bunch of worried people, or to just explain how great he felt, or just go with- "They think I'm in Middleton," he said with an effort. "But I guess Betsy told you that already."

"They won't be happy about all this when they find out you played them. I would be pissed for sure."

Happy? He almost laughed, but he wasn't sure about his reaction, or his control, and a laugh could lead to something very dangerous. He was now on a small dose of morphine, small enough to think, but also enough to be unreliable. "Yep, not _happy_ at all," he just said in an even voice. He tried to look neutral, but Bonnano smelled the blood in the water, and smiled. Damn cop instincts.

"Is it worth it?" he asked quietly. "If you think you'll lose the team because of your actions, why are you doing this? There's always some other way."

"We are talking about a few weeks of bitching and sulking, Patrick, nothing more."

"No, we are not," Patrick smiled again, his eyes keen and attentive. "You're dead worried because of that. But you're right, they are your team, your friends. It would settle down, eventually. Which leads us to the _other_ reason you think you'll lose them, much worse than lying to them about all of this." He paused, then continued with a just slight change in his tone. "What, exactly, are you planning to do when you leave, Eliot? And why do you think _that_ will be something unforgivable?"

This was going in a very bad direction. "Have you ever seen Sophie lecturing, perhaps?" He smiled, almost frozen inside. "There's no need for cataclysmic scenarios, that's enough."

Bonnano didn't say a word. He just slowly turned his head towards the monitors, where a damn, treacherous line was running at twice its normal speed. His pulse was over one hundred twenty in less than thirty seconds. With the same slow motion, Bonnano returned his eyes to him, still saying nothing.

The long, deep silence was broken only by the fast beeping sound of his heart.

Bonnano slowly leaned forward in his chair, put his elbows on his knees, and smiled.

"Let's talk, Eliot," he said softly, "about unforgivable deeds."

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Parker was standing stiffly, holding the two knives that Hardison had left on the table, and staring at them in utter confusion.

Nate was observing her from the other side of a room, where he was sitting at the small table, and going through the printed documents that Hardison provided. The hacker was trying not to look at her, keeping himself busy with his screens; he agreed to go to sleep as soon as Bonnano came and told them the news. Sophie was in the third corner of the room, sorting the things from the boxes and bags, also trying not to look at anybody.

Nate glanced at his watch; Parker had been standing with the knives for almost a minute without moving, and he didn't want to know what was going on inside her head right now. From the mad, _angry_ look in her eyes, when she finally turned to glance at Hardison and the small monitor, Nate could tell that she'd to some conclusion about something. Which he didn't want to know either.

"Parker." His voice had a precisely calculated warning tone when he called her, stopping her in her first step towards Hardison. The hacker was in no shape to fight the raging thief; his head was resting on his hands, and he stared blindly at the security footage, keeping himself awake with his last bits of strength.

The thief put the knives in the inner pockets of her black jacket, and Nate sighed. Later. He'd think about it later.

"I need some help here," he said when she came to him.

"What?" she hissed.

"Sit. Down."

She threw herself in the chair, brought one foot down upon it, and rested her chin on her knee. He didn't know why she'd snapped at Sophie few minutes ago, and murmured something about pub-going, dog-liking idiots. He didn't know why she was mad at Hardison and what was with the knives; but he certainly knew why she was mad at him. He knew better than to tell her he trusted her, then forbid her to speak and cut off communication, clearly showing her that she was not reliable enough to not make a mistake. He had no means to tell her that letting her talk to Eliot was not the 'I trust you with my life' sort of trust, it was the 'putting me in the freezer' sort.

"I want to go out," she murmured. "It's not enough if Hardison just watches those people; if I see someone suspicious, I could steal their wallets and he could run checks on them."

"Later." He pushed papers to her. "Now, I need you to go through this, it's everything Hardison sent to Eliot. "

"So? We were listening to his presentation with all the clicking, I know all that."

"Not all of it. Here's the info that Eliot asked for, about the four lieutenants, theirs and Villacorta's MO's, and the police reports."

She stormed through the papers and pictures. "What? I'm a thief. I steal things." She scattered the pictures all over the small table. "What do you want me to do with this? Guys with complicated names, fancy cars and expensive suits. And _guns_." She looked at him, still pissed. "If you want me to steal their cars, okay, no problem. Here, look… those two drive Lamborghinis, this one a Ferrari, and this one a Hummer. I can write down everything you need to steal it, if you want me to. Do you?"

"Not now," he said gently. "But you never know when we might need it. Do your research, Parker. It's what you do, isn't it?"

She wrinkled her nose, still restless, but then concentrated on the papers.

"Seventeen minutes for both Lamborghinis and the Ferrari," she said after a few minutes. "And half an hour for the Hummer."

"Why so long?" he looked at the picture of dark chocolate Hummer; nothing special about it.

"He is the most dangerous of them," she explained. "He's cautious, not a show off. He would have traps all over the car."

"But you can do it?"

"Of course. May I go now and help Sophie with the sorting?"

He nodded and she jumped up and left him. He rearranged the papers in order, keeping an eye on all three at the same time. Hardison's head was even lower than few minutes ago; Sophie's back were still turned to him, and Parker… Dear God.

"Parker, that sword is too big to be put under your jacket, I can see it from here. Will you put it back in the bag, _please_?" 

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Shit. You _had_ to admire his performance. Eliot stared at Bonnano, fascinated. He could imagine the numerous people who had poured out everything they knew because he made them _want_ to tell him all, and get rid of a burden. But some burdens were not for sharing.

Particularly this one.

"Actually, I thought about talking to you about all this," he said feeling his heartbeat slowing already. If he was lucky enough, he would manage to keep Bonnano in 'now', and stop him from going back to 'later'. "Someone has to tell Nate what's going on, right?"

Bonnano raised his eyebrows. "You want me to talk to Nate about this? If you want it, why don't you tell him himself?"

"Not about _this,_" he said, glancing around the room. "About the situation. And certainly not now. I got two more days off, and I don't want to fill his head with even more possibilities for his plans. I want them to stay away."

"Ah, you want me to tell him _after_ you go out and… how to describe it politely without cursing-"

"Don't bother. Yes, he'll need it _then_."

"I thought you are all working on the same info Hardison collected. You have been in that bed and out of everything for the past two days. Don't you think they may know a little more about the situation than you?"

He froze again. "I haven't told you anything about any info."

"Oh, so Betsy brought you your kitten pictures from Facebook, right?" Bonnano pointed at the phones on the cupboard. "Only reason she had to go to Middleton to retrieve them was so that Hardison would locate that phone there, and not in the hospital. C'mon. So, now you know everything they know."

"They know the facts, Patrick. And that's irrelevant, they don't understand the situation. They have never fought plain killers. You know the Chileans, their MO, and you know what they have been before. Nate has no idea how it works on the streets, and he doesn't understand that the whole city is listening and watching… searching for them. Webs are spread on every corner, in every hole. If they show themselves somewhere and touch the web, it is so thick that they won't be able to escape. The only smart thing to do is run, and don't look back."

"So you made them do it, lying to them, to leave you behind and not look back... You damn fool, how would you feel if one of them did that to you? Not telling you that he or she is shot, and made you leave them-"

"Stop it," Eliot pressed a hand to his eyes. Jesus, how he could feel a headache besides the bullet wound? "Do you want to know what would happen if they were here, somewhere near, if they knew I'm in here?" he growled. "Yes, they would be patient and stay hidden for one or two days, maybe, and then they would start getting ideas. And crawl outside to make them happen, 'cause they are so fucking good, so fucking clever, they can outsmart, grift, steal and hack everything! Nate could probably keep them low for awhile, but he doesn't quite understand the meaning of 'herding cats'. Parker would go first, she would just disappear without telling anybod-" He made himself stop, not because he didn't have nothing more to say, but because he could continue for hours. God, he wasn't scared; he was terrified. And he definitely didn't need this reminder, just when he'd managed to concentrate on his numbers and forget about everything connected to _them_.

"I lied to Nate." He continued, ducking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose, feeling Patrick's steady eyes on him. He didn't care what was he revealing. "The search won't lower its priorities after three days, like I told him, it will be opposite, every day getting stronger and more desperate, 'cause, you see, Villacorta has an enormous problem. The whole city knows he gave an order to kill; and now, they are watching him _not_ succeed with it. Villacorta can't afford _not_ to kill them. This won't stop."

"FBI is not in vain. And Nate put down few big fish." Bonnano's voice was calm. "It may take some time, but-"

"No. To take Villacorta down, Nate has to come here. If he comes here, he's dead. How many times I have to say that for you to-"

"And you think you can stop this, alone, three days after you got shot? Are you completely out of your mind!"

"Not yet. But I'm working on it." He raised his head and looked at him. "I won't risk their lives."

"Sooner or later, Villacorta will end up in jail, by the FBI or by the police, or maybe even by Nate's cons."

He almost laughed at that. But there wasn't anything funny in the rage that was slowly taking over, to hide everything he didn't want Patrick to see. And feel.

"It's useless, you're looking at it the wrong way," he whispered, trying to regain control. "You don't get it, Nate doesn't get it, you have no idea whatsoever. There's no fucking way to stop this with your law, or his cons! This won't stop with Villacorta going to jail. It will only become more serious, if Nate gives him even more reasons for revenge. Yeah, you will, probably, manage to put him in prison, one way or another. And so what? He'll just continue to rule from the prison, you've seen that before. They are now pissed off because of that one lieutenant… how much will they be pissed off if Nate puts Villacorta in jail? How much Villacorta will be pissed? This won't stop, Patrick. It can only get worse, much worse! If I don't-" He managed to stop himself before he blurted out something dangerous; he already said to much, and he knew he was being played… but all the things he said would be useful for to Nate after… if… later. Just later.

"You think it's smart to talk about murdering a man in front of a cop?" Bonnano said in low voice.

"I said nothing about murdering."

"You thought of it. Pretty much the same."

Bonnano glared at him but no matter how dangerous he was, he wasn't Betsy. He could stare back at him until he becomes giant zombie butterfly.

"What's so funny?" Bonnano growled.

"What? Nothing." Damn, he was sure he didn't smile. Either his control was slipping dangerously, or Bonnano was even better than he thought he was.

"I want you to promise me not to leave the hospital."

"I don't promise what I can't keep. But I can promise I won't leave if I see I can't do it. I'm not an idiot, Patrick. I'm not planning to get myself killed."

"Then what _are_ you planning?"

He just shook his head. Patrick deserved some sort of answer, at least the guideline to his actions, but more than that, he deserved protection. Protection from him, from his moves, from knowing too much about things no cop should know.

"Have you heard of Occam's razor?" he said with a sigh. "It's a principle of… simplified, when you have two competing theories that make exactly the same predictions, the simpler one is the better. If you simplify it even more, you get 'If you have two equally likely solutions to a problem, choose the simplest'. If you go further, it simply becomes the Cut The Crap Principle; see what you must do, and do it the simplest way you can, without complicated plans, investigations, cons and all that shit. Because in this case, those won't work."

"What exactly are you going to do? You're forgetting that the web you said awaits them also waits for you."

"The shortest and the simplest way to get from A to B. Take the razor and cut through the web." Eliot tried to smile, but failed. "'Cause that's what I do."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

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**.**

Hardison couldn't say that he didn't know, with one part of his brain, that Eliot was really, _really_, planning to do some crazy shit, but he was hoping that small detail in the form of a bullet would be a crucial factor in executing that particular crazy shit.

Guess he was wrong. He was almost knocked out when Bonnano came to see them, and while he listened to the cop's precise, cold report of his talk with Eliot, he felt his heart sinking as all traces of sleepiness faded away.

He was sitting at the big table, still looking at security footage - if Bonnano noticed the illegal break in the hospital security feed, he didn't mention anything – and while the cop was still talking, he turned the small monitor on, to see what Eliot was doing. He was writing something, sitting upright with pillows behind his back. For the last couple of hours the hitter had been almost constantly sitting. Bad sign.

He turned it off again, listening to Bonnano, but his mind was reeling in confusion. Facts and reality shouldn't be in such... dissonance. Facts were clear: people mostly died from bullets in their lungs. People spent weeks in the hospital, and weeks in the rehabilitation after that. Period. They didn't just leave after three days and go running all over town. It was insane to think otherwise.

So why were all of them not showing their disgust at insanity of that level? Bonnano was stern and pissed, obviously worried. Sophie was biting her nail, again, and she didn't ask a single question, silent and lost in her thoughts. Parker was restless and frowning, destroying a small lock as she listened. And Nate was listening to Bonnano as if was just an unnecessary formality that needed to be done, to gratify the cop's effort.

Facts, people! Didn't anybody these days pay attention to the facts anymore? Especially when the facts and reality were so damn different?

Reality, in the form of that idiot sitting, while he was supposed to lie down drugged for days.

Hardison wasn't so sure who was right and who was wrong in this situation, and that was disturbing. He always relied on facts, and he had been never wrong before.

So, maybe it was time to collect more of them.

He said nothing when Nate went out with Bonnano – they all knew they would talk some more – and he decided his next course of action. First, sleep for a few hours. The rest of the night would be busy and very unpleasant. Medical stuff was not his cup of tea, he got squeamish at mere the thought of blood… but that research needed to be done. He had to know what the hell he was dealing with here, plus what was possible, and what was not.

He desperately needed the facts that would twist back this awkward reality into something known and familiar, logical, and restore the balance of his world again.

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Evening was closing in and the building was already nearly empty, but Nate avoided the elevators, just in case. Bonnano was silent while they climbed down the stairs. They were on the third floor when the cop sighed and stopped.

"What if… damn, I'm starting to feel really stupid with these questions – but, what if he had told you about getting shot and about hospital, and asked you not to come and to remain hidden, would you listen to him?"

"Most likely not," Nate reconsidered that for one more second. "No, definitely not. But he could tell you the same thing, I suggest to ask him-"

"No way, I had enough of it", Bonnano cut him. "I'm feeling like a marriage counselor here. In a bad, bad marriage."

Nate smirked. "Sorry you're involved in this."

"You're not quite aware of a position I'm in, aren't you?" Bonnano's voice sounded serious and Nate took a good look at him. He wasn't smiling, and he seemed worried. "I can't leave this. I have to be here, to monitor the possibility of potential disaster. It's not only because you and him, and your team being involved; it's my job we are talking about. Here I have a potentially very dangerous man who is about to kill someone, and most likely kill himself in the process, and it's both in mine, and in his best interest to find a way to stop him before he does something irreparable. I would be here even if you weren't."

"As a police officer, or a friend?" he calmly asked.

"As the friend, as long as I can." Bonnano didn't have to emphasize that unspoken limit more clearly. "And the worst of all, he is right," he continued. "You're aware of that, right?"

"Mostly. I've noticed your representation of your talk was carefully cleared of any observations and comments, and you spoke mainly about his view of the situation. What weren't you saying?"

Bonnano raised his eyebrows.

"Okay," Nate sighed. "I'll rephrase that. How is he? Really?"

"Let's just say…" Bonnano was carefully choosing his words. "I was feeling like a complete jerk when I pressed him to show things that are not for showing. I'll say no more."

"You don't have to."

"But I'll do it again. Tomorrow. It's time for the drastic measures you mentioned. Betsy wasn't quite right when she said he's already one foot out of the door, it's not his foot but his mind. When I came in, he had to _return_ to that room. And he's also doing something with his morphine dosage. Betsy says it's impossible; she'll check everything when she comes in the morning, but I could see he's not nearly drugged as he should be."

"Have you noticed a plant on his cupboard?"

"I brought it to him, he asked- Wait, how do you- You planted a camera there, didn't you? So why I did I have to talk about all… ah, no sound. What do you mean? What's with the plant?"

"He is feeding it with the morphine, Patrick."

The cop stared at him. "Why the hell didn't you tell Bet-"

"Because it's better to let him do something we are aware of, and keep him busy with that, than remove the plant and make him think of something else. This way he thinks he's doing something useful, and it keeps him occupied."

"But why is he doing it?"

"Don't know yet. But I'm working on it. The best solution is that he only wants to keep his mind clear so he can think, but I'm afraid there's more there than meets the eye. And I don't like it. Do not underestimate him, Patrick. It's a deadly mistake, one people do only once."

"I won't. I've read his file."

"But you don't _know_ him."

"I know enough to be sure he must not leave. I have the means to make it happen, Nate, and I won't hesitate to threaten him if I see he is moving too fast, or trying to get up, or anything suspicious."

"_That_, Patrick, is an extremely bad idea."

Bonnano glanced at him with a peculiar look. "We agree he has to stay there 'til he is fully healed, right? Am I missing something?"

"Just the contra effect. If you threaten him with trying to keep him there, it will just quicken his leave, the same way the fact we are here would do the same," he explained slowly. "And, I'm not sure we would be able to stop him. I know you think I'm nuts, but no matter how crazy it sounds, I repeat, we may _not_ be able to stop him."

Bonnano hesitated, frowned, and Nate continued. "It's the best to wait those two more days he asked, and _then_ see about drastic measures."

Bonnano thought for awhile. "Okay," he finally agreed. "But if he does anything, that's it. I'll call you tomorrow morning." With that, the cop turned and continued down the stairs, leaving him.

Well, the way things were going, sooner rather than later they would all find themselves helping Eliot escape from the evil hospital and cops so the hitter could carry out his suicide plans efficiently, he thought as he returned to the office. But he wasn't amused by that, not at all.

He shouldn't be so double minded about all this, but Nate couldn't help himself, he had to rethink every idea, every possible move, every decision. Even when it meant thinking about the possibility of the smartest thing to do was actually let Eliot go his way. What if letting him go was the only way for the others to stay alive, what if Eliot was about _everything_ he said? And he has always trusted the hitter's judgment in cases involving guys with guns, even when he didn't follow his advice.

Damn, he wasn't even sure yet if their mere presence had been a mistake from the beginning; the possibility of losing four while trying to protect the one was constantly weighing on his mind ever since Parker had almost gotten killed.

To be honest, he hadn't been sure about any decision he had made so far. And that _wasn't_ an encouraging thought.

Tomorrow, Bonnano would talk to Eliot with one of their comms in his ear, Nate decided, sanitized reports were not enough anymore. He had to hear Eliot to judge his statements, to assess the whole situation, and to read from his voice everything Patrick didn't want to tell him.

"_You can't con a fired bullet, Nate_."

That damn sentence was back, and he still couldn't feel it's meaning. Maybe tomorrow he would manage to catch the message.

He hesitated before entering the office, not sure if he should talk to them about everything that might happen when Eliot left the hospital. About everything he might do. The rest of the team was not completely aware of what that might be, and he knew they were closing their eyes to reality. They knew Eliot would do _something_, but they were refusing to see how different this case was from others. They refused to understand what that exactly meant – and it could be a disaster.

On the other hand, if he brought up that matter too early it could trigger even more trouble.

"One crisis at the time," he murmured, looking at the door. He'd lost count of which crisis he was currently working right now, there were too many of them.

When he entered the office, he half expected to find them all in a heated discussion, but silence greeted him instead. All of the lights were out, the only light was coming from an opened window and a much darker sky. Sophie was standing by the window.

He quietly went to the next room and peeked inside; Hardison was sprawled on one bed, and on the other he could see only a small ball with something blonde on the top. He reminded himself to tell Parker she must put the wig back on when she gets up, and slowly closed the door.

Hardison had left all of the monitors on, all except one, so he turned it on. The only light in the hospital room was a small reading light behind Eliot's shoulder, and he was writing something. There were no blue reflections anywhere in the room, meaning the TV was still turned off. Well, at least, he was still in his bed.

"Seems like a good time to call it a day, doesn't it?" Sophie spoke, following what he was doing. The window was now behind her back and the blue light from the screens was not strong enough for him to see her face, but he could sense her smile.

He poured two glasses of Hardison's gruesome orange poison, and joined her.

"Yes, except we are on a 24/7 watch. I'll let Hardison sleep 'til the morning, if possible, but Parker will have only few hours. She slept this morning. How are you doing?"

"Better," she smiled again, then added after a long moment, "I'm sorry."

"I know," he simply said. "No need for explanations. Would you come with me, or you would rather rest with them?"

"Can't sleep. Besides, it's better if there are two of us there while they sleep. I can't watch those security cameras, but I can walk around and smile for hours."

He leaned on the window, watching the first stars in the pale indigo sky; the street was much quieter. The evening was warm, and somewhere down the alley, hidden beneath the trees, he could hear someone singing. A beautiful evening for a walk with even more beautiful woman, he almost smiled.

"Can this be considered a romantic date?" he asked pointing to the stars. "If we're lucky, we shall have the moonlight too." As he was saying that, something stirred in his head, and his second thought was about hoping there would be no moonlight; they would be too open and visible.

"Well, we certainly have romantic music…" she started with a smile, but her voice trailed off.

And with another look at the stars, Nate remembered Bonnano's warnings about the night, about packs of hyenas gathering and circling around the hospital, trying to find their way in. He _really_ didn't need that. The evening suddenly lost all of its romantic qualities, and the darkness became a threat.

"Nate…" Sophie squeezed his arm. "That music…"

"Romantic or not, this night might…"

"Nate, they're singing in Spanish," she whispered. "A very distinctive Spanish."

And now he could hear the howling too.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

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"Wake Parker up but let Hardison sleep." Nate said to Sophie when she went for her jacket.

"We'll need him on the cameras."

"Not now, every hour he sleeps means a lot. He'll collapse in the middle of the third day if he doesn't get rest. We can still wake up him if things go south."

She disappeared into the small room, and he remained by the window, listening to the singing voices. He couldn't tell how many of them were there, yet it wasn't very important; he was sure they weren't the only group around the hospital.

Sophie and Parker snuck from the room; Parker was wearing Hardison's jacket, and its sleeves were swaying near her knees.

"Parker, first, go back for the wig. Second, leave the jacket, and everything you hid in it. Especially the hand grenades, please. We don't want Eliot to hear the explosion of a hand grenade right below his window, do we?"

She thought about it, then nodded and went back into the room. Sophie rolled her eyes but said nothing. She found a scarf and covered her hair; without good infrared facial recognition scanners, it would be very hard to tell who she was, after only a brief look in the night.

"I feel naked," Parker murmured when she entered the room for the second time. "What now? Sophie said they were all around. It won't be easy to enter the hospital unnoticed. For you two, I mean."

"You know what… sit down for few more minutes," Nate said. "I have to think."

"But they might already be-"

"Sit, Sophie."

He turned his back to them and looked at the window again. Smiling. For the first time since this started, he felt the brain that was behind all of this, the man who gave the order to kill. And now, he could feel Villacorta. He went to the monitors and pulled up his picture.

"He runs a modern cartel, yet also has those hotels and restaurants and other successful businesses. He is a successful businessman with a clean record and clean books, and no one can do anything to him, because they can't catch him making mistakes. Why? Because he is not making any, that's why. He is thorough, logical, and incredibly patient in everything he does, and I can swear the thing he hates the most is sloppiness," he turned to them again. "And yet, they were singing in Chilean Spanish."

"Even they can make a mistake."

"Nope, it's not a mistake, he ordered it. Can't you feel the curve of the events? First, we took down San Gui. He said nothing, showed nothing, and started his killing machine. They were accumulating info on us 'til he had enough, and then he launched simultaneous attacks which we survived just because Eliot went back and met some of those who were following us. They tried to improvise, and fucked it up. Give me the knife, Parker." He took a knife she drew from her inner pocket, and pulled an increasing line over the wall, putting the X on the top. "Here, one big simultaneous attack, on the top of the curve. Failed." He draw the line down. "It was only yesterday, though it seems much longer. He spread a web across the town and waited. And waited. He knows Eliot is here, yet for a whole day there was no attempts to kill him. Why? Because, when Villacorta kills, he does it thoroughly. Today, Eliot was secure because Villacorta knew he can't move, and he'll still be there when the time comes. Remember, he is patient."

"And he used him as a bait for us." Sophie whispered.

"Exactly. He waited all day," Nate started to another draw line again, up and up. "And here, the web tilted when Parker touched it this afternoon, when she was attacked. Bingo! We are here, still in town, and with Eliot in the hospital; he is certain we are close. And he put in motion yet another wave of attacks. Now. Second day." He put another X on the top of the second curve. "All or nothing, that's how he works. He will kill him, and kill us in the same move – very rational, I must say."

"It's wonderful," Sophie hissed. "But how will this help us to get into the hospital? We have no idea how many groups we have to avoid, and remember what Eliot said, Villacorta doesn't have much time. He'll press hard, Nate."

"Oh, we won't avoid them, we'll go straight to them." he smiled. "They're singing, remember?"

"I swear to God, if you now just leave without explanation, I'll-"

"Our dear singers are the safest spot for entrance. They are the check and warning point. We hear them, we get scared, we avoid them in a big circle, finding some other spot to enter – where the others are, ready for us, and not singing. Very silent and very deadly."

"You mean, if they see someone who changes their direction when they hear them, that's us, and if someone goes straight beside them, it's not us?" Parker said. "It makes sense. May I have my knife back?"

"It's not your kni- Okay. You two go together, I'll be behind you."

"They won't recognize us, but you…"

"I'll think of something after I see you're in. Go straight to the third floor and tell Eric… damn, it's not Eric there anymore, he left. We don't know the third Bonnano's guy yet. Explain everything – no, not everything, just that you saw many of them around and that he needs to be very careful - and tell him you'll be in the lobby." While Nate was talking, he pulled pulled up the comm interface and checked if all of them were online.

"Check your earbuds and your phones. We mustn't lose contact. Are you aware how serious this is? Parker?"

"Serious," she nodded.

"God," he sighed.

"Very serious," she nodded again.

"Remember, stay away from the danger, don't let yourselves be see; at any sign of danger alert Bonnano's cop and hospital security, and _run away_. Clear?"

"Avoid, alert, run away, everything is clear." She let Sophie pass and held the door for her, and then turned to him again. And winked. He couldn't recall seeing Parker winking, ever before. Nor holding a door for anyone, either.

But he could be sure Sophie would be safe that night, while she was with Parker, and he was grateful for that.

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Nate was waiting in the dark shadows of the bushes while the two of them, laughing and chatting, passed the group that was sitting on the benches; Parker even turned around to look at one of them. The group observed them, and continued singing and talking when they saw no hesitation or signs of retreat.

He waited until they disappeared at the main entrance, and then he went to find his way in.

It took almost half an hour until he was able to find a short, fat female owner of a small enough dog, and after few minutes of chatting about his own little precious Oxford terrier, he offered his protection from the suspicious group that was certainly waiting for lonely women. They passed by them hand in hand, with the hysteric little monster who was pulling his leash enough to turn them away from any sharp looks. And a hat helped, of course.

He was glad he hadn't woke Hardison, because his monitoring the security cameras would be in vain this time – there was no one suspicious near any of them, all of the entrances were apparently wide open and clear. Distant shadows, however, showed something completely different. While he was allowing the dog to piss on some pink petunias, he noticed at least three parked cars with silhouettes in them, slow walkers lost in conversation, and few hundred yards away, something that looked like a game of chess with an audience. And this was just their side of the complex, in front of their office building. Quiet and lovely neighborhood.

He reminded himself about the info Hardison had given them in their first briefing; Chileans were not a mere street gang, they were trained professionals, and they were disciplined. He really envied Villacorta on that last part.

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"She went to the roof. I really don't get why she's always checking the roofs, as if a whole bunch of Chileans posses the exact same level of weird-"

"I'm listening to you, Sophie."

"No, you're not. If you were, you wouldn't go- Cartel killers do not jump from the roof and enter a victim's room through the window. Please, try to understand that."

"Okay, let her check it, just in case, and then return to the lobby." Nate said while he was walking through the longest covered passage that connected the two buildings. These were not very safe spots; with glass and lots of light, perfectly visible from the darkness. He held his head low.

Time was passing by, and nothing was happening.

He wondered what would happen when they lost their patience, waiting for the flies to get caught in their web, flies that weren't coming. Would they figure out they were already in, and start? And when would it be? Almost two hours passed, hours that were slowly gnawing on their nerves; Sophie was pacing the lobby, and Parker flew to the roof, a certain sign her levels of discomfort were dangerously high. He, somehow, couldn't blame her at all.

Sophie and Parker investigated the other side, and reported they were at the Cambridge and Charles Street as well, scattered all over. They were completely surrounded.

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Eliot was pretty sure that he would have the preliminary results of the first phase somewhere around midnight. Twelve hours for just the base prognosis and primary calculations, and he was already completely exhausted. He barely dared to imagine the Phase Two – he knew it would be pure hell. Somewhere in between the two phases he should calculate in some sleeping, but he couldn't tell when it would be safe. Sleeping would mess up everything he did so far, and he hadn't time for another round of twelve hours.

"Thank you, George, your services won't be needed anymore," he smiled at the plant, but this time, George just sulked and looked away.

Not only he was talking about twenty times more than usual, he was talking even when he didn't need to, and he was starting to worry that could be a permanent side effect of…whatever this was. Or, he could just blame it on the silence. That damn, suffocating, thick silence that made his hand unknowingly reach to his ear, to check why no one was talking, once per half an hour. He counted. He calculated everything, why shouldn't that too?

He didn't know when he became so dependent on the team, when exactly was the breaking point, but the results were showing right now, in this jail cell, with the small, evil pump. The team would deal with it in fifteen minutes. Parker would steal a key that unlocked the display, Hardison would change its programming, Sophie would make the anesthetist voluntarily adjust the doses, and Nate would make the Board of Directors to change their entire policy on morphine pumps. Working with them, always knowing that their part of the job would be done, he get used to depending on it, and he lost himself somewhere along the way. He forgot how to do things he used to do when he worked alone.

The hitter had to wake up the Retrieval Specialist. Nope. He had to find him first… and it was hard to find someone when you barely remembered what he had looked like.

The hitter kept him alive from the warehouse until now, and he would find a way to break away from the real chains that kept him here; his own body. The pump was just one more lock, the real restrictions were inside. The hitter was, also, the only one who could deal with Phase Two that was waiting in line.

The Retrieval Specialist would follow after the Hitter's job was done. He would take over when he finally got up and start all that had to be done. He would take him through all the obstacles in the hospital, and deal with all the logistic problems of getting from A to B. He used to work alone, and deal with all the problems, one by one. But he wasn't enough. Even the two of them, together and overlapping, were not enough for this.

Villacorta had an army, and in this war, in this condition, Eliot couldn't count on his ability even to walk straight, much less anything more demanding. He couldn't fight Villacorta's army even in the best circumstances. Tomorrow, when Villacorta found out he escaped, he would know he was coming for him, and he would be prepared. He would expect the Hitter, or if his intel was thorough, maybe even the Retrieval Specialist.

But, this was a war, and the only one who could fight in the war and win, who had done it before, and who knew what to do with an entire army, was the third one. The one who was once standing in front of an army, and had to decide the objective force, and estimate collateral damage. And he won that time.

The Commander.

Nobody, not even Nate, knew anything about him. Villacorta least of all.

But Eliot knew him well.

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"Why am I left behind, all alone? Why did no one remember to leave a message, or just- What the hell is this? Guys, we have a situation in here, a major one, where are you, what's happening?"

"We're in the hospital, Hardison," Nate quickly answered. "What situation?"

"Someone has been here, they cut two giant boobs on the wall! What kind of threat message is _that_?"

"These are not boobs, Hardison, these are the curves I cut to show Parker and Sophie the rhythm of Villacorta's attacks. Those x's on the top are… never mind. The hospital is surrounded, we're in it, and we are waiting for the attacks. Why are you awake?"

"Whoa, wait, I'm not sure I'm awake at all. I set an alarm to wake me up after three hours, I got some work to do tonight. And I'm watching all of the security cameras right now, there's no one in sight. No attacks. Come again, who is surrounded? You're surrounding the hospital? Why? How?"

Nate sighed and counted to five. Parker's giggle in his ear didn't help. It took almost five minutes to explain situation to the hacker, including his thoughts on Villacorta, but when he finished, Hardison was completely awake.

"Do you want me to come and join you?"

"No, stay there and monitor everything. When they finally enter the buildings, they'll be recorded, and your facial recognition will be busy."

"When, and not 'if'?"

"Yes, I think they'll start soon. I just can't guess what exactly are they waiting for – it's not just waiting to see if we would show up and get caught. Something's weird in all this, and I still can't-"

"I'll tell you what's weird here. It's bloody Carpenter weird all over the place, that's it!"

"What?"

"Assault on Precinct 13? God, I knew we'd need shotguns at some point in this shit. Go, look through any window – if there's a fog outside, I'm out of here. And I mean it, man, that Carpenter guy is creepy. This remake they made, with Hawke and Fishburne, is just a pale copy, though Gabriel Byrne was as usual a bad motherfu-"

"Yes, yes, Hardison, I get it. No fog. No monsters. Just Chileans. Aren't we lucky, eh?"

"Ask me tomorrow," Hardison murmured. "Now, stop talking, you're obstructing my work. But keep me informed, as soon as something happens, you hear me?"

"Yes, Sir," Nate sighed and shut up. It worked, Hardison didn't respond, and Nate knew the best way to concentrate the hacker was to let him get busy with his typing.

He leaned on the outer wall of the main building, holding a cigarette and coffee, as if he had just went out for a break, and he smiled to a tired, fat nurse that passed by him.

"Nate." Sophie called him. "I'm looking at Fruit Street, and they are walking freely right among the buildings, but they are not entering any, or going near the entrance cameras. Why should they stay around the Eye & Ear Unit, a street and hundreds of meters away from SICU?"

"Covering the perimeter. You're too far away now, come back. Parker, where are you?"

"Near a naked woman with a baby."

"What?"

"A statue under the trees, between the Main building and the Cancer center. I'm in the shadows and I'm waiting."

"Stay away from the trees, shadows, go back to the SICU, and stay with people."

"There are more people entering and passing by me, now when you mentioned that…"

"Same here," said Sophie.

Nate didn't respond, he nodded at the same fat nurse that passed him by few minutes ago. Just now she wasn't wearing white, she was in black, and her eyes were outlined with heavy black ink.

"Excuse me, miss…" he stopped her. "I see you're leaving for home. When is the shift change, is this your regular time, or…?"

"In about 15 minutes. I come and leave early to avoid the jam. Sometimes simply going out from garage takes fifteen minutes."

"Thank you," he smiled and waved, going back into the main building. It was connected with almost everything important, and it was a good place to be at the center of everything.

"Okay, now we know what they are waiting for," said Sophie. "I'm coming to-"

"And I can tell you they are moving," Hardison interrupted. "Stay away from the entrances and cameras, they are closing in, I can see them clearly on every single camera."

"Okay, Sophie, Parker, no more going out of the buildings, stay in, and stay together. Hardison, report."

"They just moved a little closer, nothing more. I'll send you map with red flags to your phones, but remember, those are just their positions that the cameras are aware of. I can't see anything else. Simply looking through the windows would be more efficient, if you ask me."

"Yep, I'm doing that right now," said Nate. He could see three of them standing in range of the entrance camera. "Sophie, Bonnano's cop?"

"David, notified, and warned. He said he can guard both the elevator and stairs at the same time, it's not a problem, but that it'll be useful if hospital security overtakes them before they reach the third floor."

"That's the general idea," Nate said. "Remember, they can't attack the hospital, forget it. They planned something else, Villacorta can't draw so much attention on himself."

"So, what now?" Parker hissed. "Sophie and I are together. What should we do?"

"Be patient and calm. Because when they finally start, you may need to be quicker than you ever have been before."

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Another five minutes passed. Nate watched the same three Chileans who were accompanied by two more, all under the age of thirty, all dressed in hoods, and in those oversized clothes that seemed to be so popular with the street culture.

"I was wrong," he said. Consternated silence was the only answer. "Yes, you heard it well. I was wrong. They are not around the hospital to catch us while we enter. No, they know we're inside already, that's why we got in so easy. They are here to make sure we don't leave."

"How can you-"

"Take a good look at the cameras, Hardison. They're screaming 'street gang', with red letters and warning signs. You said Chileans take everybody, not only their own – so why are all those beneath the cameras so obviously Latino American, and looking ruthless and dangerous? Because they want us to see them, and to see that leaving is out of the question."

"Why, if you said they can't attack the hospital?" asked Sophie.

"Well, security obviously thinks they are doing just that," said Hardison. "They saw suspicious movement on the cameras, and they are going to check it. Maybe this ends before it even starts."

Nate glanced at his watch; ten more minutes until many people started to enter and exit the buildings, causing a mess, and a great opportunity to storm through all of the buildings mostly unnoticed. Yes, security was warned, and it was doing its busi-

"Shit." Hardison's whisper sounded pissed. "I've got an intruder, Nate… someone is hacking his way into the hospital systems."

"Doing what?"

"Wait… can't tell you yet, because he doesn't know himself what he's doing… he just randomly tries to enter, still searching for backdoors… yep, he's in…he's not very good, but that can be dangerous."

"He is there to find out if you are nearby, and if you'll react. Can you stay low and not show yourself?"

"Shit, no! No way, Nate, he just turned off something in the Cancer center, fuck! I have to go after him and undo everything that idiot touches. Damn amateurs!"

"Nice. Can they locate you?"

"Nope. Don't worry about me, I'm covered. Take care of that Alamo shit you're in."

"You couldn't find the worst analogy, Hardison," Sophie sighed. "Can you glance at the cameras?"

They waited almost fifteen seconds, full of frenetic typing, before he responded. "Cameras, yes, still standing under them, looking innocent, explaining themselves to security and the cops, no one has entered. Guys, this is getting worse, I have another one. The first idiot is keeping me occupied, I can't see what the other one is doing… he is much better shielded, the first one was a decoy. And the second one is already in. This shit just got serious."

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Right in that moment, Nate realized they are almost certainly already late.

"Hardison…" his voice was a strained whisper, and Hardison stopped typing when he heard it. "Send Sophie a picture of the cops that you saw with security. And do it _now_."

"Five seconds," he hacker murmured.

"They are _all_ decoys, not just those two hackers. For us, for the security, for the cops. There's not a single cop in this building, people. And Villacorta has his men inside already. They've been here exactly two days. And they are ready."

"Bloody Hell!" Sophie's mad curse was a clear confirmation, and Nate shut his eyes for a second, feeling his heart sinking.

"What?" Hardison and Parker yelled at the same time.

"Eliot's cop is down with security, on that image you sent me, not even in front of the SICU building… there's no one in front of his door."

Nate was already running. "Okay, everybody, listen up. Hardison, what's Eliot doing?"

"Can't see shit, light in his room is off. The second hacker is moving, Nate, and the first is going deeper, I have to stop the first one, don't have time to-"

"Okay, do it. Sophie, Parker, call Eliot, wake him up and keep him online. I'm going to him, and if I see I'm too late, I'll tell you to tell him they're entering his room. And go to David and send him up!"

"What, tell him, but he'll know-"

"That way he'll maybe have some chance to react… that's only thing that matters right now. Do it!"

He pulled out his phone, still running, and then smashed himself into a corner, completely blind.

All lights in the hospital went off.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

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"Eliot?" Parker's voice was trembling when she called him, and Sophie pushed her to get herself together. They were hurrying through the corridors, trying to reach David from inside the building. After a few seconds of complete darkness, the hospital backup systems took over and the generators pulled everything up, except the main lights. The corridors and rooms were lit only by emergency lights, pale and insufficient, and everything looked unknown.

"Parker. What?" Sophie listened to his voice, and suppressed yet another curse. He was sounding barely conscious.

"Well, I didn't have an opportunity to speak with you earlier, being grounded and all. It's nice to hear your voice, at last. I miss you. You sound much better alive than when you're inside my head. Almost like you're here. Just keep talking."

"What? There _is_ something wrong with you."

"Well, thank you," she gleamed. "Finally! It's not the same when I have to tell it to myself in your voice, and trying to guess when you would say it. Kinda disturbingly introspective, you know? And it's complicated to explain so I won't even tr-"

"Parker, this is not a good time. Call you later, ok?"

Sophie moved away a little. "Nate, he's drugged, he won't be able to do anything. It's useless!"

"So un-drug him, for Christ sake, do something! I'm just entering the SICU."

"Damn," she sighed and snatched the phone from Parker who squeaked in protest. "Eliot, I'm so sorry to disturb you, but we have a mess here. Hardison got hit with a hand grenade. In the head."

They continued to run, while she counted seconds of silence on the other end of the line. After almost ten seconds, she spoke again. "Eliot, you're still there? Oh, God, sorry, sweetie… It didn't explode! I'm such a fool… it will be just a nasty bruise. Parker hit him, you know?"

"You… you…"

"Okay, calm down, I said I'm sorry!"

"You don't just say something like that and- dammit, Sophie!"

"Light's on, he's sitting, and he sounds very awake," Hardison reported. "That went smooth. Now talk. I blocked the first hacker, now I'll try to stop the second one. Nate?"

Parker pulled Sophie's sleeve and pointed to the cop they were looking for, in the middle of the security guys at the end of the long lobby. Then she pointed to herself and looked up, and Sophie nodded. The thief turned around and ran in the opposite direction, and Sophie hurried over to the group.

"You should see it, honestly, I sometimes think they are worst than any teenager. Lucky for us she didn't pull the safety pin first…"

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The room Nate was looking for was on his way to the SICU, so he didn't just pass it, he spent a few seconds on opening it, no matter how precious those seconds were.

Coddington's room was empty. He didn't bother to check the other two, he knew those were empty, too – the cops that were guarding Eliot's arrested attackers were down at the entrances, with David, dealing with the unusual security threat.

He ran again. "Hardison, any results from Coddington's cloned phone?"

"No, everything is erased, he didn't use-" The hacker's voice trailed off as he connected the name and everything. "Oh shit. Oh fuck. Where are you?"

"Just passed their empty rooms. Going up now."

If no one contacted Coddington by phone, the only warning sign could be turning off the lights; if they moved when the lights went out, he maybe had a chance to catch them in time. They wouldn't risk running, they would walk slowly, trying not to raise suspicion. He tried to remember what their injuries were; he was pretty sure one had a broken arm and the second one, some broken ribs and clavicle. If he remembered correctly what Hardison had told them, third attacker probably had a concussion with something broken on his face too. They wouldn't be very slowed down.

Sophie was still talking to Eliot, waiting for him to give her a sign, but Nate suppressed that conversation in the back of his mind. He had to go to the third floor, and then he'd decide if she should tell him they were there.

The elevators were up. He hurried up the stairs – on the platform of the third floor even the emergency light was out, and he could barely see the door. The door was half open, and one hand of an invisible body held it. A hand with plaster cast on it.

This time, darkness was his ally, and he slowed down, trying to ease his labored breathing, and come as close to silent as possible. He almost made it. The Chilean must have heard something, because the door jerked towards him, but he stopped it with his foot, violently throwing it back into the Chilean's injured arm. It slammed him into the wall, but it also fired the gun that was in his other hand. A gun with silencer on it, in the hand that still had handcuffs. The bullet went into the wall, and Nate had enough time to hit him once more, sending the gun down into the dark pit of the stairs.

Nate couldn't waste more time on this one, so he just grabbed the Chilean's handcuff and attached it to the railings, leaving him that way. Unfortunately, he didn't have time to climb down and search for the gun.

He stormed into the corridor with Eliot's room in it, thankful for emergency lights that were on. And in that moment he realized three things. The first, it was the very long corridor, and Coddington's hand was already on the door knob of his room. The second, no warning to Eliot could stop the bullets fired from the door. And the third, he was unarmed.

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Nate noticed a body sprawled behind the dirty cop's back, a body with a bandaged head and jaw, and he had to admire Coddington's mind; he was making himself an alibi for later – he didn't kill Eliot, he just came too late, and he dealt with his killer. A true hero.

He was more than thirty meters away, which meant Coddington could fire more than six times before he reached him. Hell, he could fire freely after he first did what he'd been sent to do. Nate calculated that it would take only one second to open the door, and two seconds to fire three bullets into a man in the bed. And he would still have enough time to shoot him, too. Coddington's gun was ready in his other hand.

It all went through Nate's head in the first second of his first step into the corridor.

In the next second, he remembered he was wrong about one more thing. He _wasn't_ unarmed. And he threw himself towards Coddington, pulling the first throwing knife from the holster.

Coddington noticed him in that moment and turned around, taken aback by the unknown man that was running at him, and Nate saw that he would only have another second while Coddington thought about possibility of him being one of his back up. He surely didn't look like a cop.

The knife flew through the air with a vicious hiss, missed the killer by two meters and cut a branch of the plant above the chairs. But Nate was almost half way there when Coddington turned his gun on him, and finally let loose of the doorknob.

Not slowing a bit, Nate threw the second knife, and he was luckier this time. The knife hit Coddington directly in the head, but with the handle. It broke his nose with a sickening sound, bounced back with even more speed, and stabbed _him_ in the leg. With the sharp end. Nate almost fell when his leg gave way, but he was running at full speed and couldn't be stopped, and he slammed into Coddington, who staggered backwards.

Broken arm, down, broken jaw, down, Nate calculated while he was regaining his balance, and then punched him first in his broken ribs, then in the bandaged shoulder and clavicle, and finally in the head, sending him falling unconscious to the floor.

_Jesus_. He bent over, trying to catch his breath.

"All three… down," he managed to say. "Sophie, cut the talk. Hardison?"

"One hacker is blocked, dealing with the second. You okay?"

"Peachy." He threw himself in the nearby chair and stared at the knife in his leg. Hardison called them 'damn murderous things.' Now he understood that sentiment.

He was still sitting when he heard a soft 'ping' sound at the other end of the hall, and when door of the elevator opened, it revealed a tall man clad in hospital pale green. With a gun in his hand.

The man stepped out and smiled, raising his gun, and he could only stare at him, so he did just that. He stared.

He was still staring when man yelped in agony and fell like the dead.

Two long legs showed on the top of the elevator, and Parker graciously jumped down, holding a taser in her hand. She took the gun while approaching him.

"No, Parker, put it back. Wipe it and put it back." He whispered. "The police will take over, we mustn't get involved. Where's David?"

"Climbing the stairs, I took the quickest way." She wiped the gun and put it back near the fallen man with a sigh. Then she wrinkled her nose, watching the knife in his leg. "This one looks familiar… Isn't it…"

"Just shut up, Parker." Nate observed the knife. It wasn't a deep stab, maybe two inches, so he just pulled it out, cursing.

"Stupid," she said.

"Yeah, I know. But we'll use them." He stood up and went for the other one, down the hall. He could walk almost normally. He opened the elevator doors and secured them with the both knives. "Now we have just one way in, the stairs. Hardison, what's Eliot doing? Is there any chance he could hear something from the hall?"

"Nope, all the doors are sound proof. Besides, he just sits and stares at his phone."

"Uh – oh. Go!" Nate pulled Parker towards the stairs. They had almost reached them when his phone rang, and he closed the door in the last moment before melody sounded through the hall. The door, no matter how insulated, wouldn't stop that sound.

Parker tased the Chilean handcuffed to the railing, and he stopped trying to set himself free.

"It's David!" Parker whispered pointing to a man that was coming to them, and Nate motioned him to go to the hall, giving him the sign to stay silent. Then he answered the phone.

"What's going on in there, Nate?" Eliot sounded neurotic, not drugged at all. Nate just sighed. "Parker is ten times crazier than usual, Sophie is rambling at thrice speed, mostly nonsense and she never talks nonsense… Hardison hasn't said a word, and he's _always_ talking… and hand grenades? _Fucking grenades_? If you lied to me, if you're doing something, I swear I'll-What the hell are you doing!"

"Me? I'm thinking of killing them, one by one," Nate hissed in response. "Parker snuck out to steal a chocolate, _a fucking chocolate_, tons of that, and we're still dealing with the aftermath. Now, if you don't mind, I have to deal with a sulking hacker, a thief on a sugar overdose, and a grifter with a hysteric breakdown, all of them together in one apartment, so enjoy your vacation while you still can! And I strongly suggest you _do_ _not _call me again, or I'll come to Middleton and shoot you as well, just for the fun of it, and then gather all your corpses, behead them, shrink your skulls and smash them with a hammer. _Bye_, Eliot."

He ended the call and exhaled one long breath. "Fuck the paranoia."

"You're creepy." Parker smiled. "I missed that."

"Yes, he is," Hardison's strangled voice sounded in his ear. "I think you scared him, too. He's staring at his phone like he's holding a snake."

"You know…" Parker shifted, standing in front of him. "I can go there and stun him with the taser, and repeat it when he wakes up, and again… and keep him out for days."

Nate thought about that for three long seconds, and almost smiled. "I'll keep that in mind. Stay here." He went back to the hall. David was still staring around, probably in horror. "This one killed that one over there, and that third one is tased. Call security and their cops, but do it as silent as you can… and make sure no word of it goes into this room. Okay?"

"Shut up." When the cop spoke, Nate looked at him more closely; he wasn't standing there frozen, he was rigid and alert. Listening. "Where are the nurses? They should be checking the patients to see if the systems for life support are all working properly after the power shut down. Stay here." And with that he left the hall.

Nate waited. A soft rumbling and hissing sound came from the elevator, and he went over to check; someone had called it from the ground floor. For a moment it looked like the elevator would move, but knives, although they bent a little, held it in place, keeping the door open. Damn, the explanation of two destroyed, bent knives would be very interesting.

David returned with two nurses. "Locked in their tract," he explained, pulling out his phone. "Now, get lost. This is now a crime scene, it's better not to be around. I'll call Patrick first, to see how we should deal with it."

Nate just nodded and turned around, but then remembered something. He went to the two frightened nurses. "Ladies, very soon in this hall will be many police officers, investigating this crime scene. Will patients be disturbed by that noise?"

"Not at all. This is SICU, they need absolute silence and peace, no sounds go through the doors. They won't even know someone is in the hall."

"Thank you." He was relieved. If Eliot found out that there was attack on him at the same time they called him, sounding strange, he wouldn't need paranoia to connect the dots. "But, just in case, may I ask you not to mention anything that happened to the patients, especially not to the patient in the room 304? He shouldn't be upset."

"Yes, of course, poor man," one of them said sarcastically. "Don't worry, Betsy called us, we know everything."

"What?" he waited, feeling his heart sinking. How many people knew-

"All those women he raped? Of course we won't tell him anything, she said not to speak to him at all. We know why this cop is guarding his door. Bastard! I bet those poor men are husbands of his victims!"

Nate quickly turned around so nurses wouldn't see him grinning. Maybe Bonnano was right, maybe they _should_ have let Betsy handle this. God, he had to tell Hardison to call them when Eliot tried to charm those two nurses. They would need the popcorn.

He joined Parker again in the stairwell, closing the door behind them.

"Hardison, the second hacker?"

"He'll be preoccupied for the next couple of hours. I broke into his account and posted some child pornography under his name on twelve different sites that I know are monitored in real time. And the second isn't an amateur like the first one, I'll bet he is running for his life as we speak."

"Excellent. Sophie, where are you?"

"At the entrance of SICU. Do you want me to-"

"Move away from that entrance, now!" Hardison hissed. "This shit will never end. Shift change just started, and they are coming in. Run!"

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"Sophie, can you reach the third floor?" Nate asked while helping Parker uncuff the unconscious killer from the stairs. They drug him into the hall so David could keep an eye on him. Nate left Parker to explain the situation to the cop and nurses, and moved away. "Sophie?" he asked again.

"Not now, Nate," Sophie's voice was barely a sound.

He cursed softly under his breath. "Hardison?"

"They left a few of them to argue with security and keep them occupied, the others mixed into the crowd. They managed to enter in almost all of the spots. You two, stay on the third floor, the cops that were guarding those three are on their way to you, you are the safest if you don't move. Wait… What?Sophie, what the hell are you doing! Nate, she went back to entrance of SICU-"

"Breathe, Hardison," Sophie sounded calm. "I certainly won't run through ill-lit corridors, being chased by killers, and wait to be surrounded and stopped by the other group that went in on the opposite side. I'm not some stupid blonde who'll go into the basemen-"

"What?" Parker asked. "What's wrong with the baseme-"

"Nothing, darling. Just stay with Nate, will you?"

"Sophie, one of the killers, the fourth one, was clad in hospital green, and didn't look like a Latino," said Nate. "We don't know who may-"

"Neither do I look like Sophie Devereaux. Relax, I know what I'm doing."

"And she certainly does," Hardison voice sounded relieved. "You're doing good, just a few more meters and-"

"Would anyone care to explain what is going on?" Nate growled, pacing the hall.

"Two security guys are just helping her to climb down the stairs with her crutches, and from the look of it, one of the Chileans who is still there, it seems he's restraining himself from helping them. She is a small portable oxygen cylinder, and has an oxygen mask on her nose… maybe the mask is scaring him a little."

Nate hastened his steps. "Sophie, you'll just pass through the visible web, you don't know how many of them are still in the back, in the dark, hidden and waiting. And now you're alone, in the middle of the night, in the open, without backup, and you still have to walk to the offic-"

"Stop nagging, will you?"

He bit his tongue and tried to remain silent. He waited twenty seconds, trying to calculate how many meters she could go with crutches, when he heard something that sounded like the soft clicking of a trigger. He turned around, and then realized the sound came from the comm. Parker heard it too, she looked at him, frozen.

Ten seconds nothing happened.

"Ok, Sophie, I see you, just continue across the street, there's no one waiting near our building." Hardison said.

"When did you put cameras on the street?" she asked.

"I didn't, I'm on the street with a gun, waiting for you."

Nate pressed his hand against his forehead and drew it slowly down to his chin. Two of them out in the night full of Chileans, and Hardison with a gun. Parker frowned as if attacked with a very nasty toothache. He just waved helplessly, and went to the chair. He needed to sit down, the hall had started to sway a little.

David was looking after the stairs, waiting if someone tried to enter, but the nurses were checking room after room, bypassing the handcuffed and motionless bodies on the floor. He noticed they weren't going into 304.

Parker was tapping with her fingers on her taser, clearly counting the seconds, and after the next twenty seconds she lost it. "Where are you?" she asked, almost mad.

"Just opening the door, take it easy." Hardison replied. "Here we go, locking the door behind us. We're in the building, safe, no one is here."

"Don't leave the crutches or oxygen at the door, take them to the office, leave no traces behind," Nate said. "And hurry up, we have to know what's going on."

"Of course we didn't leave them, Hardison threw all of it in Lucille."

Nate decided he wouldn't ask them if they checked the van first for car bombs… it could wait until they were safe.

After one more minute, Hardison spoke again, this time just a little breathless. "Damn stairs. Here we go… give me a second to catch up… ok, nothing new. No one tried to enter your floor?"

"No, at least not from the stairs."

The two were safe, and Nate could breathe a little easier; he was pretty sure the Chileans wouldn't try to enter the third floor, they had another task . It would be a swift sweep, quick but thorough – they couldn't afford to draw too much attention to themselves. They would sweep through the hospital from one end to the other, armed with guns complete with silencers, and Nate didn't want to imagine what would happen if they didn't know what was going on. He just hoped that none of staff or patients looked like one of them, though he was certain Villacorta's men didn't make such mistakes.

"Do you think they'll even check the patient's rooms?" Sophie quietly asked, obviously thinking about the same thing.

"Probab-"

"They won't have time, trust me," Hardison cut him off. "Just now three police cars came with rotating and flashing lights, everything is red and blue. They won't risk staying close, they'll clear out. Nate, you have to go, the police are almost as dangerous for you two as the Chileans. I don't know if Bonnano is with them, or those were called by the Security. Get into the elevator."

"No, they'll-"

"Just go, close yourselves in, I'll stop you in the middle, between the two floors, and bring you down to the ground floor when I'm sure all the Chileans have left the complex. It will look like a malfunction, the cops won't suspect anything. Hurry, they must be on the stairs already."

Nate slowly stood up, and pointed to the stairs, and David nodded. Parker had already pulled the knives out of their place, and he joined her in the elevator. He sat on the floor when the elevator moved and abruptly stopped, a little lower.

Parker was looking at the knives and shaking her head.

"You know, this was fun." She said with a cheerful smile, sitting next to him. "Except for your leg. And the knives." She patted him on the hand. "Will you teach me how to shrink heads?"

Nate leaned his head back against the cold metal, and closed his eyes.


	15. Chapter 15

**I keep forgetting to thank Trappercreekd, who is my Beta, and who did wonderful job with all chapters. Thank you, darling :D  
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**PS: Talk Parker/Eliot is dedicated to vguz04, who told me one important thing about Parker, that I wasn't aware of. Thank you :D  
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**Chapter 15**

The air leak from his lungs had stopped almost two hours ago, and there were no nurses in sight. Eliot could understand that night shifts were a little less demanding for the normal stuff, but this was SICU, they were supposed to monitor the patients all the time. To see how things were going, he'd have to wait until the doctor's visit in the morning to get rid of chest tube. Besides that, it was better he was left alone. This night would be difficult, and very, very long.

He stretched his hand with the mirror in it, and once more checked the readings of the Pleurevac on the floor. Yep, air leak was definitely a solid zero, no bubbles. The blood in the first chamber on the right was still, unfortunately, keeping up the slow but steady drip. While he'd received the last transfusion, he spent some time measuring drops that were going into him, and those who went out, in, out, in, out, until he got dizzy. He wondered why they didn't just connect the drainage tube back to him, in a circle.

There was no improvement there, and he could do nothing about it except keep an eye on the time, and milliliters, and count. He was sick of counting. And of time, too. Not to mention _milliliters_.

He should have tried to calculate the exact time when those idiots would snap completely, and crawl out to con something. According to their state in the last talk, if Nate didn't manage to calm them down without a hammer, they would endure until tomorrow evening. He almost smiled when he realized he didn't choose three days on his ability to walk, but rather on their ability to stay low. He hoped he was wrong.

He observed a window in the building across the street, the only one that was lit. He noticed it earlier, when all the other lights on in the obviously business building went out, and kept all his lights turned out. Snipers, though, wouldn't be so reckless, they would shoot from a dark room. He stopped suspecting when the yellow light was replaced with pale blue; someone was spending the night working. Somehow, that blue light was comforting. And in what part of his life, did the fact that someone else was still awake become _comforting_ for him? He didn't like the answer at all.

After one more checking of the time, he prepared the next syringe before he pressed the pump, connected to the tip of the IV tubing, and collected two more milliliters of morphine. The seventh round of it… a few more and he'd be ready for the most entertaining night in his life. He reminded himself to write a short explanation of what he did and how, and leave all the notes in a visible spot; that way nurses wouldn't be questioned if he miscalculated and killed himself.

But before he started Phase Two, while his head was still clean, he had to do an important thing. The first step in a line of different steps, not connected to escaping from hospital. God, how he was going to mess it all up, when things started to mix, blend and fuse… and he was not even in the complicated part of it.

He took a minute to divide 39783 with 693, just to check if his brain was clear, or deceiving him.

Maybe he should really trust Nate to be able to wait, and keep them low and protected, and just stay here longer, until he got better. Yet, no matter how solid his trust in Nate was, it wasn't important. None of Nate's actions were relevant, they were not the crucial part that would decide their destiny. It was Villacorta's doings, the one thing none of them had any influence on.

Yet.

He searched through the data Hardison had sent, and pulled out Villacorta's personal info. He checked the time again before taking one of the new phones Betsy had brought him, and then he dialed a single number.

"Good evening, Renan Villacorta," he said softly.

_Let's play, spider._

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When Nate and Parker finally arrived at the office, after endlessly waiting in the elevator, they found Sophie resting on the sofa, and Hardison vomiting in the bathroom. Sophie was reading some magazine she'd snatched from the hospital, and her hair was freshly washed. She greeted them with a warm smile.

"What?" Nate asked glancing to the bathroom.

"He's throwing up."

"I can hear that. Why?"

"He decided to learn a few things; he hacked into John Hopkins and opened their recordings, educational videos and presentations on thoracic surgery. You know… blood, cutting, internal organs…"

"You didn't say he actually watch-"

"I said 'opened', not watched," she smiled again. "It's his third time vomiting, and he didn't manage to pass the initial hand washing and preparing of the patient yet. By the way, are you hungry? We ordered Chin-"

"He's bleeding." Parker said passing by with a first aid kit. "Move off the sofa."

"What?" Sophie gasped.

"I cut myself with a knife. Nothing to-"

"Nope, he _stabbed_ himself with the knife. It's a very distinct- here, you do that," she pushed the box into Sophie's hands. "I don't know how to stitch this."

"I can't even recognize if something needs stitching," Sophie murmured while cutting his pants when he sat on the sofa.

"Just wrap it up. Tomorrow I'll ask Betsy to take a look, if needed."

Hardison chose right at that moment to emerge from the bathroom. He stared at the bloody rag in Sophie's hands, the hole above Nate's knee, and he slowly and wearily reached his chair. His face was ashen.

"I hear you're becoming an expert," Nate grinned. "Wanna join the fun?"

Hardison didn't have the strength to even frown. "While you were resting in the elevator, I was _working_. I solved the mirror puzzle. I know what he's doing with the mirror, and what he's writing all the time," he hesitated a long second. "We are in big, big trouble."

Nate looked at him, but the hacker kept his steady eyes on him. Damn, that sounded serious. Sophie stopped wrapping.

Hardison took a large piece of paper. "I wrote it all down. Hours and hours of it. I even used one of my progr-"

"Hardison…"

"Yeah, right, here it goes. It's important to notice the pattern, pay attention," he took a deep breath. "18:15 pm – Pretty. 18:30 pm – Still pretty. 18:45 pm – Still pretty. 19:00 – Missing my hair conditioner, but still pretty. 19:15 pm – Pretty…"

"You know, if we cut off Chaos's tongue, he could be a good replacement," Nate growled. Parker openly giggling, and Sophie trying not to laugh, were not helping him to stay serious.

"What?" Hardison gleamed. "You want to say I said something wrong?"

"I'm not saying anything," Nate stretched out on the sofa, bringing his leg up on pillows Sophie had put under it. "Except it's just past midnight, and that we can rest freely 'til morning. Police and forensics will be busy there the whole night, and after that maybe someone will be left to guard the crime scene. No more Chilean attacks until tomorrow. Yet, you can expect the third boob on the wall as the day progresses."

"Real sleeping?" Sophie blinked. "Well, it will be nice to remember that again."

"Yes, and starting now. I'll stay here, you go-" The message sound from his phone cut off his words, and he sighed when he looked at it. "Parker, open the door. Bonnano is here."

And he was _fuming_. What a joy.

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Patrick didn't storm in, and his anger was not shown in any visible form, but he radiated the anxiety through every restrained and controlled move.

"Coddington," he said shortly. "I'm listening."

"Sophie, Hardison, show him the video from the warehouse," Nate nodded towards the monitors. "They'll explain everything to you."

Nate stayed on the sofa while they watched and talked, and Parker pulled up a chair next to him, obviously not wanting to be near the angry cop. She was nervously playing with Sophie's magazine.

It took only a few minutes of explanations, and Bonnano turned his chair so he could face them all.

"Okay. I understand," he slowly said. "Sort of. At least, I understand your line of thought."

"Have you spoken with him yet?" asked Nate.

"Nope, he's still out, I'll question him tomorrow. David fulfilled all the needed details, so we could come up with a relatively strong story."

Bonnano still sounded disconcerted, and Nate remembered his initial description of Coddington when he showed him his picture the first time. It seemed they were something more than simply colleagues; he could feel a pride in his voice.

"You liked him. And he betrayed your trust."

"Coddington is, from now on, a subject I don't want to speak about," Bonnano growled. "You deal with the betrayal and trust issues in your own team first, then preach to me."

"Speaking of preaching, you visited Eliot again?"

"No, still too messy in the hall. Tomorrow."

"I'm sorry about Coddington," Sophie said softly, moving herself to the sofa next to Nate, who almost smiled on that maneuver: first Parker, now Sophie, they all were putting distance between themselves and Bonnano's silent rage. Only Hardison seemed to be unaware of the tension.

"I said," Bonnano slowly said. "I don't want to talk about Coddington. When all this ends, then, maybe."

"Okay, just one last question – the Chileans won't stay there, you'll move them to some other hospital?"

"Already transferred."

"So, Eliot will have to search for them when he gets out, instead of having them handy," Parker murmured, still playing with the magazine, and Nate squinted. It was a very bad time for Parkeresque craziness; wrong time and extremely wrong person.

Bonnano took a deep breath. Hardison threw his chair to the other side of the table.

Nate thought of stopping it; he could still change the course of the conversation, but then he thought better, and decided to let it be. Maybe it _was_ the time for this particular crisis to emerge. Cruel is what cruel does.

Parker looked up, suddenly aware of the silence. "What?"

Bonnano slowly said through gritted teeth, "In what damned fantasy world are you living? You have no idea what…I think you're taking this situation way too lightly. Have you taken a look at that dead body in the hall? It was the real corpse, Parker."

"But we didn't kill him," she said, confused. "We don't do that."

"No, you didn't. You have a killer to do it for you, right?"

"What killer?" she blinked.

"That one," he pointed to the monitor where he'd watched the warehouse footage. "It was useful to finally _see_ what he does when he's motivated. Now I understand what he meant when he said it was what he does."

Nate felt Sophie's warning eyes on him, but he gave no sign that he noticed it, having no intentions of stopping this. Bonnano was doing exactly what he wanted him to do. Maybe it was better that someone who was not part of the problem point that same problem out.

"You mean Eliot? Don't be silly, he'll just think of something useful, and then we would all go home and-"

"Christ! This is not a game!" he almost yelled. "No, Parker, he won't _think of something useful, _and then happily return. He is going to kill Villacorta, and as many of his men he can before they kill him. And even if he lived, trust me…he is not coming back."

Her eyes were suddenly wide open. "What do you mean he's not-"

Bonnano looked at her, visibly trying to calm down. "A few years ago, my partner's wife was killed instead of him in attack on their house. He was back on the job very soon, acting normal. Yet he was searching for the killers. He knew he'd lose everything; his job, his friends and probably his life. I saw that in his eyes, that he reconciled himself to that loss. But I did nothing, thinking it was just a grieving phase. He found them, killed them all, and got killed in the shooting. He thought it was worth it. And I'll never forget that look in his eyes, that inevitable loss. He knew the thing he was about to do was unforgivable, that there's no going back, even if he lived. Today, I saw it again."

"You're wrong. He wouldn't leave us."

"No, _he_ wouldn't." Bonnano softly replied. "In that room you have a man who is slowly tearing apart… both himself, and all the ties that bind him to the life he knew, because he knows he'll lose it all. And here, in this room, are people who have no idea what that means, who are completely unaware of _what_, exactly, he'll give to them." Bonnano glanced at him, and Nate just smiled. "With a few exceptions." He looked the rest of them, one by one. "He thinks you're worth it, but I can't see why. You're not even trying to understand, you bunch of hypocrites. And guess what, I have news for you – he knows you, and he's aware that you'll ditch him in disgust when he breaks your ideas of moral virtue, while doing something _silly_, like saving your lives."

"That… that… It's not just- we won't-" Hardison stuttered and Bonnano turned to him.

"You know what killing is?" he asked almost pleasantly. "It's when you take a gun, and blow up someone's head with a bullet, and bones and brains and blood spray all over. It's not nice and clean like in the movies, Hardison. You _do_ know that the pressure from an exploding skull often causes the eyes to pop out of the sockets and hang on few a nerves, right?" Hardison stared at him completely frozen. "You can't stand even _talking_ about that. And yet you wanted to say you'll have no problem working with a man who has _done_ it. And who is going to do it again."

Nate wasn't watching Bonnano anymore, he was studying the other three, waiting to see when it would dawn on them finally. He couldn't be sure, they were too stiff to give away anything certain, but that stiffness was also a good sign. After all, introspective came in phases. It was important that it started at least.

Bonnano glanced at Sophie and Parker. "Aren't you supposed to be criminals? You're innocent as children, for God's sake, you have no idea what men are capable of. You act like you've never saw death, corpses, mutilation-"

"They haven't, Patrick," Nate said softly. "It's not their world .They were always protected from it."

Bonnano stood still, and looked at all of them; at young the hacker, at the thief, at the grifter, and Nate saw the realization in his eyes. "Well, damn it all," he shook his head. "It seems Eliot was right. You won't be able to deal with the things he'll do, you don't know how to do it. He _will_ lose you all."

"They may be innocent, but they're full of surprises, Patrick." Nate let out a brief smile.

"I won't wait to see, there's too much at stake here. I'll come again at lunch time, and I'll take any necessary measure to keep him here. And I mean 'any'."

"Not without this." Nate threw him a box with an earbud in it. It wasn't a suggestion, and Bonnano recognized it. He nodded.

"Once I missed an opportunity to do something," he said. "I never make the same mistake twice, Nate."

And Nate recognized _that_ decision.

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"Who is this?" The voice on the other end of the line was calm and pleasant, with deep, warm tones in it. A very nice voice. It went perfectly with the dark eyes and delicate, thin face from the picture Hardison had sent him.

"Eliot Spencer. Reporting live from Mass Gen. Still in room 304, in case you wondered."

"Ah. Nice to meet you, Mr. Spencer." Villacorta didn't hesitate in his speech while he was sorting his words out. Yet, Eliot didn't call him to listen to his words. He wasn't good at reading words… he was good at listening to other people's silences. "Aren't you supposed to be dying, or something?"

"Yes, I am _supposed_ to be dying. It seems it's one of the many strange things you'll have to deal with when the time comes, and I don't envy you on that part."

"How can I help you?" Another quick question, without pause.

"I was hoping I'd wake you up and get a chance to see how much time you need to concentrate yourself; obviously, I'll have to wait for another opportunity for that."

"I see," Villacorta smiled. "You're bored. No one is visiting you?"

"Nope, they're busy." He smiled back. "You know that feeling, right? I can bet you don't see much of your lieutenants these days either. Busy week."

"Good, we can comfort each other in difficult times."

"I'm sad to hear you're going through difficult times."

His laugh was earnest and deep, natural. "I have to say this is a pleasant surprise. It's very rare that people who are… let's say, specially underlined in the schedule lists of my associates, call me to talk. "

"I'm not talking, Mr. Villacorta. I'll talk next time we speak. This is just a courtesy call."

"Oh?

"You're talking. I'm just listening."

"So, you have nothing to say? Perhaps, you have something to ask?"

"Not really. Do you?"

"Nothing that I can think of right now. In case I change my mind…"

"You have this number, of course. I'll be glad to answer any of your questions. I hope I didn't upset you with this late call."

"Not at all. You're not upset either, are you?"

"Why should I be? Do I sound like I'm dying?" he smiled again and continued kindly. "We _are_ the right people for that list of yours. Your decision _is_ impeccable."

_There_. Two seconds of silence.

"Good night, Mr. Villacorta," he smiled.

"Good night, Mr. Spencer."

He ended the call and put the phone on the cupboard, and then closed his eyes. He wasn't smiling, he was too tired for that.

The first mine planted in the minefield. The first cut in the web.

_Will you walk into my parlor, said the Spider to the Fly._

_Poor Spider._

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"I don't get it," Parker whispered, pacing restlessly over the room.

"I know, Parker." Nate smiled. "And I'm glad you don't."

She sighed and threw herself in a chair. Bonnano wasn't right. She wasn't innocent… she was pure.

He watched Sophie. She was glancing through their data to keep herself occupied, but her face was cold and distant. Closed.

Hardison's back were turned on all of them, even to Parker. Nate noticed he didn't turn on the small monitor once since Bonnano had left.

"He _is_ a killer." Nate said, breaking the silence. "You all know that."

"He was," Sophie said shortly.

She wasn't innocent either. She was idealistic.

"Can you explain that difference to me? It's ok to be former killer, and not active one? It's okay to kill, just as long as you don't see it happening?"

"It's not about what we see," she slowly said. "It's what's the best for him to be."

"So, if he decides it's the best for him to go out and start killing again-"

"Stop it," she snapped. "It's useless to talk about it now."

"When won't it be useless? Tomorrow, or the day after, when we have to decide shall we go after him and bring him back… or not? And what will be the line he'll cross, after that you won't be able to be in the same room with him, and look at him? One murder? Five, ten?"

Hardison got up and hurried to the bathroom. Nate checked; he wasn't even watching any video. Ok, this one _was_ innocent.

Eliot knew from the beginning this would happen one day; he was right when he asked him not to tell them he took a gun and killed Moreau's men. They were shielded and guarded from the death and suffering; and this was outcome.

The pure, the idealistic, and the innocent, were on the journey to the real world. But someone else would pay the price for their ticket.

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Hours passed and she couldn't sleep, staring blindly in the dark. Parker loved dark. Only, she didn't love the rooms in which it gathered. Just like this one, and all the rooms in all the temporary homes that she'd lived in.

It took years and years before she learned that home is not rooms, the home is the people. It almost looked like she was finally able to _keep_ them.

She couldn't let this fall apart; they were the only solid thing she had, the only thing she cared about, and she couldn't let herself lose them.

Any of them.

Bonnano's words were all a giant mess without meaning – he got it all wrong, he didn't understand any of them. But he scared her. Scared the others, too. She could hate him for that, if she didn't see he was scared too. For that, she could love him. And she didn't like to be confused. Her small world was neat and organized: people had their places in it, and changes were not acceptable.

She had to talk with someone, but they were all sleeping. No. She knew who wasn't. The only one who could give her answers to this.

She snuck from the room, took a phone, and as silent as a ghost passed the sofa with Nate on it. She closed herself into the bathroom, and sat on the floor.

She had to talk to Eliot, to find out what was true, and what wasn't, but she didn't have any means to do it. Every question was dangerous, even those not connected with all this mess. She could only talk, and talk, and wait for any sign that would comfort her and tell her Bonnano wasn't right.

"What are you doing?" she asked when she heard a click.

"Answering a phone call at 3:00 a.m.?" he said after two seconds.

"Besides that?"

"Watching a movie, can't sleep."

"What movie?"

"Have no idea. Some monsters crawling around, looking scary and screaming."

She listened, not sure if he was smiling, but Eliot didn't sound as drugged as he was the last time. He did sound as he was watching something on TV. He spoke slow, maybe a little slower than usual, but pauses between each sentence was longer, as if he had to turn his head from TV and think about the answer. She was glad he was occupied with something.

"I'm bored," she said, knowing that would usually piss him off. "I'm calling you because I'm bored, and I don't really have anything to say."

"I know." She waited, worried, but he said nothing more. She needed him to act normal, that way she would know Bonnano was wrong. This wasn't _normal_. She curled into herself, suppressing panic.

"You will come back, right?" she whispered quickly.

"Wh-" she closed her eyes when he cut off the word and went silent.

"I mean, you didn't leave us?" she quickly continued. Maybe Nate was right when he didn't let her talk to him. "Pretending you'll join us after a few days, but not planning to?"

"Yes, I'm in Italy, on the beach, it's a warm morning, and I have two redheads with me. And a cocktail."

"A beer."

"What's wrong, Parker?"

She couldn't tell him what was wrong. "Everything's wrong," she whispered. "I'm scared."

"Finally." This smile was unmistakable, and she had to smile too. "It's okay to be scared, Parker."

"Are you scared?"

"Nope, that was yesterday. Today I'm panicking."

"Now you're just trying to make me feel better." And it wasn't working. Every word he said scared her more. He didn't tell her she was crazy, he didn't ask what's wrong with her, he was _nice_.

"Never, it would be too dangerous. I'm sitting in the corner of a room, I'm watching a scary movie, and I'm panicking. Absolutely terrified."

"If you were scared yesterday, and today you're panicking, what will be tomorrow?"

This time, the silence was longer.

"You know, Parker, fear can be isolated and-"

"What will be tomorrow?" she knew this was not smart, but she had to.

"Good night, Parker," he smiled. "Take care of them."

She slowly put the phone on the floor, and rested her chin on her knees, too miserable to cry. She should have asked him if he trusted her, but she forgot. It seemed she was the only one that trusted them all, fully, without any second thoughts. They were _hers_.

She slowly stood up and leaned against the sink with both hands. Her eyes in the mirror were red.

She trusted them. And God help them _all,_ if they screwed it up.

She didn't smile.

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Eliot slowly lowered the phone; the screams covered the sound of the dead line, and he had to check to see if Parker had really hung up. Later, he would check the phone to see if he really spoke to Parker, or if it too was just a part of the chaos that was surrounding him.

And he couldn't stop smiling. It was hard to explain why he felt so satisfied when he was in the middle of a very vivid, live nightmare, when the room crawled around him and twisted itself into abominated figures that screamed; but, he was able to talk, and think in spite of all that. He couldn't expect complete brightness, and he was ready for misunderstandings, but the talk with Parker went well, as far as he could remember. Sudden panic attacks were a problem in the beginning, when he couldn't distinguish them from the real fear, but he managed to isolate all the differences, and pass through them only as an observer. The panic was not connected with the visual hallucinations, his brain was affected on several different levels. It was interesting, better than any movie.

This Phase Two might not be as terrible as he was afraid it would be.

He slowly reached for his papers and pen, left on the blanket, and his hand went right through something… ugly. Writing was somewhat harder than speaking, because his fingers felt completely numb, but he managed to write the time first, and then the rest. 12 ml, H – 7/10, T – 5/10 P – 0/10.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Now, he had to only endure a few more hours of attacking monsters and a swimming room, before the dose would wear off, and to prepare himself for another try, before trying out another set of extremes. It wouldn't be a problem, he smiled watching the changing colors. The monsters never frightened him.

After all, every single monster that surrounded him had his own face.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

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Finally, butterflies again. He really missed them. The amount of morphine in his blood was decreasing to a normal level, the one he was supposed to be on, just in time for the morning mess with the nurses and doctors. _The m__orning of the damn third day_.

Eliot managed to try four different dosages throughout the night, and the last one almost killed him. He knew it wasn't smart but he was running out of time, and right before dawn he shot himself with all of the remaining morphine from the syringe. It was necessary for this part of Phase two and without it, it wouldn't be complete, but he spend almost two hours caught in a permanent state of panic, combined with five dangerously close encounters with respiratory arrest, that he avoided only by counting every single breath that he took, and forcing himself to take another one.

It was clever he didn't choose that dose for when he tried to get up, he used it after the second one. He barely remembered how it went, he wasn't sure what exactly he did to get to his feet, but he could clearly recall the absolute inability to do… anything. There was no pain at all, but he couldn't tell where he was, nor distinguish what in his surroundings was real, and what was not.

Yet, he was standing. He didn't fall, and didn't faint, and he stood beside the bed as long as he could, checking the time every couple of minutes. He went back to bed when he heard the first warning sign, buzzing in his ears and inside his head, a sure sign he was about to collapse.

He knew the nurses checked on him a few times during the night, their shapes were somehow different from the other shapes in the room, but he pretended to sleep. They only checked his tubes and readings, not disturbing him, and not touching him, thank God. The third one came almost too close, and she was alive only because she entered in the moment that one of the doses was decreasing.

He was reckless. It was not like he had any possibilities for safety measures, but it was reckless and dangerous to come so close to slipping out the control entirely. He wasn't used to that. This whole morphine shit scared him, showing him how easy one could lose all their shields and defenses.

He survived this set of extreme measures, but no matter how much harder the next set would be, he was glad this one was over.

He drew a line beneath the numbers from the previous night, and put a question mark by the number three. And smiled.

Floating and looking at three windows instead of the one was as close as sleeping as he could get, and he wasn't sure if his mind was slow and sluggish again because of the drugs, or just because he hadn't slept since he'd woke up yesterday at noon. If this was 'recovery', he was doing it wrong. The 'healing' part was something that would come, eventually, once the recovery part brought him to his feet again, and when all this was finished. He would find some dark hole somewhere, and spent next two months just laying down and sleeping.

"You're writing in Arabic?" Betsy's voice, too close, sounded harsh after his silent thoughts, and he opened his eyes and looked at her. She brought a tray with instruments, good. It took him a long moment to realize she was waiting for his answer.

"You thought I'd let you see and read my poetry?"

"Your poetry is full of such romantic diagrams," she said dryly. Of course she didn't just look at first page and stop, she went through it all.

"You remind me of a friend of mine," he said trying to smile.

"Great. You remind me of the dog poo I stepped in on my way here."

"It's because of the hair, isn't it?" he smiled, pouring on a three months reserve of charm, he even did a slow eyelash blink, reserved only for emergency cases, and all he got was a finger pointing right between his eyes. Again.

"You look worse than yesterday. You're supposed to have a little color back in your face by today, not those gray circles around your eyes," she said flatly. "I'm done with your shit. Sit."

She took a step back and crossed her arms.

He sighed and did as she said. He wasn't worried about acting normal, he was now on the regular dose and he could behave exactly as he felt. Okay, not exactly, maybe a little… more recovered, like after a night of healing sleep.

"How do you feel?"

"Dizzy, floating, double… no, triple vision, and sleepy."

"Pain? On a scale 1 to 10?"

At that, he almost laughed. He was lucky he'd written all the numbers in Hebrew, so she couldn't see the hundreds of X/10's written on his papers. "Solid 4.7/10, Ma'am."

"So, you managed to even all effects right on time. Very nice. I won't ask you why, I have no patience for bullshit, but I can tell you one thing… that plant is going away. I've checked all the recordings of the pump, and it says all dosages were regular, 2 ml every half an hour, and there's only one explanation."

"That plant is my only friend in here," he murmured and ducked his head, letting his hair cover his eyes, while scanning the tray she brought. He had enough tape, he needed one more syringe and scalpel. He thought of accidentally tipping it from the verge of the cupboard, when he noticed the unusual pause after his response, and quickly looked at her.

"No, it is not," she said, studying him as if she wanted to say more. He remembered that voice, it was the first one he had heard, when he woke up for the first time: gentle, tender and comforting. So, there _was_ a soft spot that he could attack on this unassailable fort. Charming her was futile… but helplessness was obviously a trigger.

Except… not. He couldn't fight dirty against her. Even if it meant slowing himself down.

Damn, where was the ruthlessness when he needed it?

"Take good care of him," he waved goodbye to George, as she took him to his old shelf next to the window. One scalpel was under his pillow before she took her third step. "Though, he doesn't look bad. He is even a little taller than yesterday, look at those cute little branches. Does he look tall to you?"

"It's not funny, you idiot. You have no idea what you're doing."

"Yes, I have," he said.

She turned around to look at him. He wasn't smiling.

"Patrick can't understand that there are things more important than the law," he continued. "You can't understand that there are things more important than health. Okay… more important than _proper_ healing."

"Things? You mean people."

"People, things, plants… whatever. I want to say that _you_r opinions on the matter are not relevant. I know them, I acknowledge them, and I admit you're right in many ways… but Betsy, it doesn't change anything. It's still only my decision that matters. The only one that is true in _all _ways."

"Fair enough," she smiled. "But I don't give a damn. I've told you yesterday I won't do anything that would compromise your health and recovery. And with that, it's only my opinion that matters. So, we're in pat position."

"No. It's just an opening, it's not the end of the game. This game could only end with winning."

"If you win it, you'll die."

"The point is avoiding that."

"Eliot… if you leave, you're a dead man walking. Not because of those guys out there, but because you'll drown in your own blood." She pointed to a tube that was going down to the floor. "See that strange red fluid in it?"

"Yes, that reminds me to tell you that air leak is-"

"I know, it will be removed when doctors come to visit, soon. Don't try to change the subject. Do you remember anything from the shooting, and after the shooting, while you waited for the paramedics? Are you aware that they saved you in the last few minutes, that you couldn't breathe because of blood?"

Damn it, he didn't need this. He hesitated, trying to concentrate on _this_ breathing, and not on the memory of those endless minutes of… dying. Of course he was aware of it. Yet, if he told her he didn't remember anything, she would continue with explanations he didn't want to hear. If he said he did remember, she would attack with those details, which he didn't want to remember either. If he said something in between, he would get both speeches. His mind whirled.

She didn't press, just looked at him. "Time to lie down," she said after a long silence, easing him back against the pillows. "You're green."

He wanted to tell her he was not a fool, that he thought of it, and was working on solving it, but he couldn't. Mainly because he didn't know if he would deal with that problem in time.

"I hate it when you're right," he said quietly, hoping it would calm her suspicion.

"Get used to it." Betsy smirked, taking a blood samples from his IV. "And now, a transfusion and breakfast."

He literally felt himself becoming greener at the thought of food, but she was trained to see that, and she sat beside his bed during the whole torturous feeding, until she was satisfied with the amount of food he took. He couldn't call it the food, but he ate it nevertheless. She told him the stories of other stupid patients that thought of escape, and he had to laugh a few times, noticing how she cleaned her words of anything useful or way he could reuse. In return, he told her about the numerous ways the food could be better, and described everything that he could do with it, with nothing more than three different spices and a different kind of oil, and then she laughed when she realized his words were cleaned of anything _she_ could reuse. She was beautiful when she laughed, and he made mental note to do it again.

When she left, he quickly took the mirror and papers, to write down all the numbers. She'd stayed with him almost half an hour and he felt the morphine level decreasing further. He pressed the pump on time, and collected it in the syringe. He'd need it later, at night. Then he left everything, closed his eyes, and thought about the second extreme of Phase Two.

Ever since he'd woke up, he wasn't even once entirely without the drugs. Even when he was feeding George with it, or later collecting it in a syringe, he made sure that at least every second dose kept the pain on a manageable level. He'd been analyzing the different drug levels until now, but he couldn't do anything constructive without the other extreme… being completely clean of it.

He had to know what he would be able to do in that condition, 'cause tomorrow he would have to function only on pain for a couple of hours, nothing else. When he was on the lowest dose, pain was a solid 6/10, and that was enough to make breathing a gruesome effort, and every move was like a deep cut of a knife. Without drugs, it would go to 10/10.

The doctors would be here any time soon, so he would pass through the removing of the air tube with still enough drug to survive that, and then he would be at peace, no one would disturb him until lunch. Those few hours would be enough to collect two doses per hour, and to clean all traces of morphine from his blood.

After that would come the brightest part of the day – standing up without any pain medication. For scientific purposes only. God, he _was_ crazy.

Something was telling him he would miss the monsters from the last night.

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Somebody was shaking him, and Nate opened his eyes to an unbearable amount of light that was attacking from everywhere. The office was lit with sunshine. It wasn't early morning, he thought, still confused.

Sophie pushed a cup of coffee into his hands. "Time to wake up. Are you hungry?"

He just shook his head. "Anything new?"

"Nothing. Parker went to check the situation, and two policemen are still on the third floor, flirting with the nurses. They'll be there until Bonnano comes, and he called and said he'll be there soon."

"Soon? He said about lunch-"

"Well, it's not lunch yet, but breakfast time is long gone… you've slept longer than you thought."

He sat, carefully stretching his leg. Hardison was at the workstation with his headset on, watching the medical educational movies on one of monitors. Parker was sitting in one chair, with a cheerful smile. He smiled back, then looked at her again. She was sitting still, doing nothing, and smiling. Dear God. He quickly tried to find anything that could occupy her, but found nothing.

He left the coffee on the table and went to the bathroom.

When he came back, she was still smiling.

"There is one more thing…" Sophie hesitated and nodded to the monitors. "The doctors removed one tube during the visit. He now has only one, and the IVs. Hardison said that the procedure is very simple, and that one man can do it, especially anyone with basic medical training. It takes only fifteen seconds, if you have occlusive dressings ready to apply."

"So, we can't rely on the remaining tube to keep him in the bed, because he can remove it himself when the time comes? Great."

Sophie said nothing.

His phone rang at that moment, and he sighed. "I wonder if he bugged us, and is having the time of his life listening to our ramblings right now." He threw a pillow at Hardison who turned around. He pointed at the ringing phone, and Hardison turned off the movie, and put the phone on speakers.

"You know, maybe I want to speak to you, alone, and not to all of them. Just sayin'."

"So, do you?" Nate smiled at Eliot's grumbling tone.

"No, not now. It's nothing important anyway. Just checking to see if you're all still alive."

"All alive, and all in one apartment. Wanna join the fun? Hardison has 36 hours of Star Trek."

"Tomorrow."

Nate stood still. He wasn't exactly asking about his coming, and he certainly didn't expect the answer. "So, you think the danger on the streets is lesser?"

"It will be tomorrow, I've told you that already. You have any plans prepared, or just still thinking about it?"

"Something in the middle. Few ready, but still working on it. Why?"

"The spider will soon become restless. They get hungry when their webs don't catch anything. When that happens, it's useful to have something ready. Hungry spiders make mistakes."

"Eliot, is this a _metaphor_?"

"Metawhat? Can't remember bastard's name, that's all. Take me off speakerphone now."

Nate nodded at Hardison to cut off the speakers, and went to the window.

"Keep an eye on Parker. She called me last night, and she was scared."

Nate almost hold his breath."What did she tell you? Did she complaint about… well, everything?"

"Can't remember, nothing important. Just keep her near, okay?"

"Yep," Nate sighed. "As near as I can."

"I won't call you again, I'll get rid of this phone later, but not before I give you the second number. Call me only if something important happens."

"You know, you sound in a hurry. Still hiding, or chasing someone right now as we speak?"

"Still hiding," Eliot smiled. "It's not the time for chasing yet. See you tomorrow."

With that he ended the call.

Nate stood still, watching the phone in his hand. _Metaphor, right_.

Eliot just told him what he was going to do, putting an emphasis on it. And when. But not how, the most important part.

He did it on purpose, knowing that Nate would later analyze every word from the warehouse on, and draw all the conclusions correctly. Bonnano also served his purpose as a pure medium for messages – he told him everything important that Nate needed to know. Eliot just couldn't know that all those messages, that he put on delay mode using a middleman, were already delivered. And that would mess up his plans.

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Nate wondered if Eliot had noticed that although he was on speakerphone, no one tried to say anything, they were just silently listening, so different from their usual constant chatter and interrupting so often that they made most conversations impossible.

"So," Hardison said quietly. "Tomorrow it is. You were right."

"We still have all of today, and the whole night," said Sophie.

"For what?" the hacker responded with a grunt. "We can't even tell Betsy to knock him down, he's messing with the morphine."

'For what' was a very good question, Nate thought, but Hardison wasn't aware of that. He drank his coffee, watching Parker's dreadful stillness. She was silent.

"Hardison," he called him. "You can check Lucille for the car bombs? Carefully?"

"Yes, I can. Why?"

"If… when, he goes out, there'll be no need to watch the hospital."

"I guess not," Hardison murmured. "You want me to do it now?"

"No, during the day… and think of some way to make us invisible in the traffic."

Both Sophie and Parker looked at him with identical narrowed eyes.

"No, don't worry." Nate smiled bitterly. "I won't make any decisions without you. Going, or not going after him will be only your decision, because I'll ask every single one of you to say it clearly."

"Because you want to know what we think about it, or because you can't decide for yourself?" Sophie said in exactly the same tone. "Because you want us to decide instead of you?"

"It? What is 'it', precisely, Sophie? 'It', as an act, or 'it', as a person?"

"Whoa, stop it right now!" Hardison cut them off. "You're forgetting we don't know anything for certain yet, we have only presumptions. Maybe we got it all wrong. Who said he is going to kill somebody? Bonnano? Bonnano is guessing as well. He is a cop, he is pessimist by default, he'll assume the worst."

"Someone would say he is an authority in the matter, just because he is a cop." Sophie said dryly.

Nate drank more coffee, watching them silently. He wondered if they were aware of the fact that they were all going through the denial – anger – bargaining - depression – acceptance circle, in one crazy ride, over and over again. Then he looked at Parker and her smile, not daring to guess where was she in that process right now.

"And we are not the authority? We know Eliot, Bonnano is just getting to know him. I would rather trust our opinion, than his."

"And what would be _our_ opinion, Hardison?" asked Sophie.

"He won't kill anybody. He uses violence only as an appropriate response!"

Hardison was deeply cemented in denial, Nate sighed. That could be a problem later. Sophie, on the other hand, was coming to acceptance. He hoped Parker was not stuck in anger.

"Hardison." Nate said after a moment's silence, softly, almost gently." Can you tell me, please, what do you think _is_ an appropriate response to the death threat from an entire army of killers?"

Silence fell hard, and Hardison swallowed.

He needed them to accept the possibility of mass murder, it was the only way for them to find a way to deal with it. Denial was the worst thing that could happen. If they knew what to expect, they would find a way to solve it within… somehow.

"Something… I don't know." Hardison managed to say. "Something… else."

"You can't kill an army, Hardison," Sophie shook her head in despair.

_You can't con a fired bullet, Nate_.

"That's what I'm sayin'! He can't so he won't!"

_An appropriate response against an entire army_. Nate stared at his coffee, not looking at them anymore.

"Are you sure he can't?" Sophie asked.

"_Are you sure you can actually take down Moreau_?" Eliot's words reeled inside his head, and Nate slowly got up, and turned his back to them. Another warehouse flashed before his eyes, full of armed men. _You can't con a fired bullet, Nate_. No wonder he failed at reading his voice when he said that sentence, because the voice just reminded him of something else; the look in Eliot's eyes when he picked up that gun. Haunted, desperate eyes, yet resolved.

Then, Nate had no choice, he had to let him do it; there was no time to think of something else, to find some other way to escape, though he tried… and Eliot fought, and was forced to kill again, to save his life.

There wasn't anything else Eliot could do then… and there wasn't anything else he could now, in this situation. _That_ was the damn message he was trying to guess since they talked for the first time yesterday. The same despair. And the same decision made from it. A deadly combination.

From the beginning, Nate was oscillating between two decisions about everything. Had he been wrong when he didn't take others and leave town? Was he wrong when they didn't tell Eliot that they were here? Would it be better to stop Eliot, or let him do what he was planning?

Last night showed him that their return, at least, was not the mistake he was afraid it might be – if they weren't in the hospital during the attack, Eliot would have been killed. Even if Eliot, somehow, managed to stop Coddington, the fourth man from the elevator would finish the job.

Yet, that was just one of the many things he was dealing with, and he was willing to take it as a good sign, but nothing more than that.

He was responsible for the other three, and had to think about their lives. Yet, they were not in imminent danger; Eliot was. All those questions that tortured him were about the safety of entire team, he focused on them, instead of on the only one that really needed protection. Not from the Chileans, but from himself, and his own concept of honor. Parker was on the right track from the beginning, she'd spotted the real problem. It almost killed him the first time, he'd survived that shooting with Moreau's men by chance… the second time he might not be so lucky.

The answers were so simple, he knew that now… the questions were wrong. The right question was supposed to be: would he let Eliot sacrifice himself _again_? Simple as that.

_No_.

Eliot had to be stopped. They'd think about how to deal with this threat, all of them together. The one would not take all of it upon himself again, no matter that it was his job to protect the others. Protection went both ways, otherwise it wasn't protection.

He turned around to face Sophie and Hardison, who were still silently arguing. And Parker, who was watching him thinking.

"Enough!" he yelled, cutting off Hardison in the middle of a sentence. "Do you remember a single word of what I've told you when I told you who our real mark is? Did you think I was joking?"

They all looked at him in silence.

"What is the most important clue about Eliot's plans that Bonnano told us? Hardison?"

"Occam's razor?"

"Sophie?"

She shrugged.

"Parker?"

She smiled.

Nate shook his head in exasperation. "There was no clue, you fools, Eliot said precisely what he is going to do. He'll do _what he does_. What is his job in the team?"

"Stop it, Nate… spit it out already!"

"He won't attack the Spider, it's not what he does, it's not his job. It's mine. And he knows that. Eliot wouldn't risk messing with that part, as I hesitated to mess with his part, 'til now. He will do his part – he will clear the way for us. As he always does. That's why he asked me five minutes ago if I had any plans ready."

"What does it mean?" Hardison asked.

"It means, Hardison, he won't attack the Spider… he will attack _the web _that's protecting him from us. Basically, everyone else."

"Dear Lord," Sophie whispered.

"Except, he won't. Because I won't let him do it."

"What're you going to do?" Sophie asked quietly.

"First see what Bonnano has on his mind, and give him a green light to do anything he thinks it's wise. If it doesn't work, I'll think of something, even if it means revealing ourselves."

"Nate, this madness must stop right now!" Hardison hissed, grabbing his remote. "Come and take a good look at what we're talking about! You're forgetting the fact that that man pinned to his bed, still on machines, _can't _attack webs, killers, armies, spiders, he can't do fucking anythi-"

They all turned to look at him when his words were cut off. He stared at the small monitor.

"Nate…."

He quickly joined him.

Eliot was standing beside the bed. His bare chest were covered with bandages. Because of the tubes and IVs he couldn't wear the usual hospital gown, he had only the lower part of one, tied loosely around his waist, and he was barefoot. But he was standing, not swaying at all, and he examined his right hand, slowly relaxing his fingers.

"This is soooo not good," Hardison whispered.

Right at that moment Eliot's head turned, and he looked directly into the camera, causing a gasp from the hacker. For the moment it seemed he had heard him, the look was so synchronized with his whisper, but Nate knew he didn't look at the camera. Eliot looked through the window beside the camera, and that was even more dangerous. He always knew when he was being watched.

"Turn it off." He said. "And call Bonnano. I'll tell him he just got up."

"Nate, Bonnano said he'll do _anything_ to stop him." Sophie's eyes were worried. "Maybe it's not wise to let him-"

"Sophie… you remember when I've told you I would barely have time to become cruel enough?" he paused, and smiled. "Well, I found some spare time to practice that. Everything is falling apart, Sophie… it's time to save what can be saved."

He looked at Parker who was studying him, her head tilted, a strange smile permanently cut into her face, still not saying a single word.

Sometimes, when things were falling apart, they might actually be falling into the right place.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

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He was a fool when he thought he could do it while completely without morphine. There was no way he could function, walk, talk, anything, with that ripping pain that was suffocating him, with blood loss that made his vision blurred and black much quicker than thousand fucking milliliters of morphine could.

Eliot tried to hold the mirror, but his hand was trembling so bad that he couldn't focus on the glass. He should have known that even before he got up; simply laying still was painful, he didn't need to move to know he was in trouble. _Oh, yes. The trouble_. He even thought he would have to recalculate everything he did so far, 'cause his scale was wrong, this pain was not 10/10, it was fucking 20/10. He should have listened to Betsy, and not messed with it; the terrifying thought that he might have ruined who knows what, and slowed himself down even more wouldn't leave his mind.

And yet, he did what he was planning to do, he had to do it. He got up, wishing he was dead after the first movement. He also regretted, deeply, that his mind was clear, so he could enjoy every sensation in brilliant clarity. There was no escape from the pain, because he had to fucking _breathe_, and every breath sliced fresh agony through his chest.

Lifting a hand, simple task, became a complicated puzzle, and looking at his shaking, absolutely useless hand, made him so mad he could barely stop himself from destroying everything that was in his reach. The buzzing inside his head warned him he was too weak to stay upright, when the blood started to drain out of his brain, and when everything went gray. He tried to lay down slowly, but he just crumpled into the bed. He knew he passed out for a few minutes, 'cause his hand was numb when he turned around to check if he'd pulled out the tube.

_Shit. Shit. Shitshitshit_.

He laid still for a few more minutes, taking careful, shallow breaths, contemplating an entirely new sensation: _defeat_.

It was a strange feeling, unknown. He spent the next five minutes enjoying it, getting to know it better, knowing it was the last time he would feel it…Then he did it again. He stood up.

It was not like he wasn't used to pain. It was just something to conquer and use. Pain could be analyzed like any other thing, and knowledge about something always meant victory. This particular pain was one stubborn son of the bitch, but he was his owner, his master, and there was no fucking way he would let it stop him. Maybe it was kicking his ass right now, but Stubborn was _his_ middle name.

He got up four times, every time finding something new, every time _learning_ something new. When to breathe, when to hold his breath, when to move, when to stand still, and how to stop his vision from blurring. Well, almost.

The fourth time, when he found himself on his knees, with no memory of not only falling, but also of getting up in the first place, _and that was something to worry about_, he found himself staring at the two long stripes of duct tape taped under the mattress, and that strange, unfitting silver tape shook him. He was trained to notice unusual things, and that helped him to return, to get himself together. He managed to get himself on his feet again, and then he crawled back into the bed, too exhausted and shaky to connect the morphine IV that he pulled out. He just glanced at the IV in the other hand; that one was still connected. He hid the loose end of the morphine tube, and tried again to raise the mirror and steady it enough to take a look. Unfortunately, he managed to do so.

Not good, not good at all. Betsy was pissed 'cause he was pale, and if she came in now, he was in serious trouble. He tried to smile and look drugged, but it was in vain. He had pushed himself far beyond any reasonable limit, he was half crazy with pain, and his smile scared even him. _She would kill him_. Unless he managed to explain that a bared teeth smile and bloodshot, crazy eyes were side effects of that damn breakfast.

Slowly, without breathing, he fixed the mess around him, pillows, blanket, and all those damn tubes, pissed when he couldn't find a syringe – though he didn't know how he would connect it to the IV with trembling hands. After that, he had to breathe in, and pain sliced him again, and he snarled while trying to smile, trying to control his wrath and wish to kill something, anything, just to make it stop.

He found a scalpel, though, what a joy. It was a good thing he didn't find it a few minutes before when he was wishing he was dead.

He barely had time to hide it in his right hand and under the blanket when he heard the opening of the door, and he quickly closed his eyes.

But it wasn't Betsy, it wasn't another nurse, these footsteps were different.

"We have to talk," Bonnano said kindly.

Fuck. Not _now_, Patrick. He slowly raised the left hand and put it over his eyes. "Can't talk. Headache."

"Not gonna work."

'Don't smile, don't open your eyes, just nod and look drugged,' he reminded himself, clenching his teeth, clearing his mind of wrath and rage, slowing himself down. And, the most important, forbidding himself to _move_.

He had a _very_ bad feeling about this.

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As a policeman, Bonnano was well used to earbuds and comms, but Nate told Hardison to cut himself and Parker from the line. They could hear everything, but Bonnano wouldn't hear them speaking. It was better to minimize the distractions as much as possible. When Hardison tried to cut Sophie's comm off, she just glared at him. Nate nodded; she could be useful. Grifters were a perceptive bunch, and she could see something that the two of them missed, and react quickly if necessary.

Hardison was still dealing with the channels, tones and background noise when Bonnano entered Eliot's room, and the quality of sound in their ears was perfect when he finished. They could not only hear the two of them, but every soft hiss and beep of the medical equipment, sounds that made Nate stand up and start pacing in front of the table.

He tried to tune them out, putting them in the back of his mind, but his concentration was ruined even before the conversation started. He was hoping he would never again have to listen to them; his mind was trained to analyze them, to search for irregularities, to _fear_ them, and it wasn't something he could control.

"Hardison, turn off all the background sounds."

"Can't. I can only lower that channel down so it won't be so clear. It will still be-"

"Do it. Now."

Nate sat back when the beeping became muffled and distant, deeply inhaling, trying not to feel Sophie's worried eyes on him. He rubbed his forehead and tried to concentrate on the monitor and words, instead on the involuntary effort to track the beeping. Damn, he wasn't the right person for this. In just a few seconds, he was thrown back into a completely different state of mind, state of life. A hospital bed and those sounds in the background awoke all his instincts of _protection_, for God's sake. He wasn't that man anymore, he ought not to be _him_, he had to bring back the cruel and insensitive mastermind who would do anything necessary to finish the job.

He stared at the video. There, in that bed, was his…No. There was their mark, a man who had to be stopped and squared away. Nothing more and nothing less.

He needed a drink, desperately.

"Yep, headache is a really terrifying thing," Bonnano's voice was sarcastic. "It's awful when it draws attention from the bullet wound, isn't it? I would offer you some aspirin to ease your suffering, but who knows how would you use it. Probably to make an explosive or something."

Eliot said nothing. His hand was still covering his eyes, and he was completely still.

"You're not drugged, you can't fool me. You're forgetting I was shot too, not so long ago, and I still remember all of this. I said we need to talk, and we shall talk, whether you like it or not."

"Nope. Headache." Nate listened to Eliot's voice; exhausted, rough voice, and his words were gritted with effort.

Bonnano sighed and started to pace the room.

"What if I have some news that you need to know?"

"You're bluffing."

"Try me. I thought you would take any new information you can get."

"Nope. Headache."

Bonnano swore under his breath and continued his pacing.

Nate jumped in. "Patrick, he can continue for hours like this, you won't be able to draw more than two words from him. Throw him out of it. He is unusually tensed, and he is speaking with effort. Use it."

"Yes, I can see that." Bonnano sighed. "But, do you really think I would believe that you have a headache?" He turned around and went in the opposite direction. "And the most important thing, do you think I wouldn't see you're hiding something, and that I wouldn't try to find out what's going on?" Even with the minimized background sounds, Nate could hear the soft rasp of his shoes on the floor when he went to the other side of the bed. "If you think your silence will stop me from talking, you're wrong, you know that?" He went back, but this time closer to the bed, in smaller circle. "Unfortunately, I can continue for hours, I have enough time." Nate held his breath, knowing what effect that the closing in would have on Eliot; Bonnano's voice was quieter with every sentence, and closer, and he was everywhere, too close, too-

"Stop it!" Eliot hissed, his voice strained. "Back off, Patrick, you have no idea what are you doing!"

"I have." Patrick voice came from the other side, again too close and too quiet, and Eliot finally removed a hand from his eyes and straightened himself up in one quick, raged move. Nate couldn't see any details on his face, except that he was pissed, but he could recognize the tension that radiated from him. Bonnano took one step closer, watching him closely.

"What the hell are you doing to yourself!" he almost yelled.

"Fuck off!" Eliot snapped back. "Go away and leave me alone, I _can't_ talk right now!"

"You have no choice. I thought about everything you said yesterday, and I came to the conclusion that there's not a single legal thing you can do."

"What?" his voice was full of disbelief. "Not that shit now, pleas-"

Bonnano waved his hand towards the monitors and Eliot winced."Not to mention all that you're doing to yourself right-"

"Patrick!" The vicious note in Eliot's voice froze his words. "Move away. Sit. Down. Please."

"Do what he says, now." Nate quickly said, recognizing all the signs. "He's in the flight or fight mode, and not controlling it very well. Try to calm him down. Step back."

"I won't step back unless you calm down and talk to me."

"Whatever, just… move away. Sit and don't come close."

Nate stroked a hand through his hair, noticing it was shaking. Something wrong was happening, but he couldn't nail it down, it slipped through their words and growing tension. "Don't try to interrogate him, Patrick, his plans can wait. Just tell him everything he needs to know, and _leave_. You're driving him nuts, this is not normal."

"Well, I have enough time for talk," Patrick said while sitting and pulling a chair closer to bed, and Nate swore. "And you seem to be in a very vulnerable state right now. What policeman would miss this opportunity to press you and find out more about your plans?"

"A clever one." Both Nate and Eliot said through clenched teeth, at the same time.

"As I said, you can't do anything legally. I mean, you can, but it wouldn't work in this situation, right? That leaves us with those nasty things… let's call them… something illegal." The sarcastic tone was back in Bonnano's voice. "Can you define 'something illegal,' Eliot? We both know you have problems with that definition, but with a little help you may guess it, somehow."

Eliot was sitting completely stiff, still upright. "Patrick, don't provoke him, calm him down! He is not himself right now, I don't know what's happening, but this is _not_ good. He'll snap."

"You see, when I talked like a friend with you, it didn't work. Maybe I was wrong, maybe you need to be provoked, and interrogated by a cop to make you speak."

Eliot slowly turned his head towards Patrick, and Nate cursed. "You just became a target for god's sake! Remember what you saw on the recording from the warehouse, and back off! This is a bad idea."

"You keep forgetting I'm a bad cop," Bonnano continued.

"I keep forgetting you're cop. Period." Eliot's voice was all of a sudden low and ferocious. "Good and bad makes no difference to me. But thanks for reminding me of that."

"But it makes a difference for me, Eliot." Bonnano leaned forward in his chair. "A lot. I came here to tell you that I decided to do anything to stop you from leaving. Do you know what that means?"

"A really, really bad idea?"

"It means you'll have just one chance, right now, to convince me you won't do anything illegal."

Eliot stared at him.

"You have to tell me exactly what you're going to do, and then I'll decide should I arrest you or let you continue. And when I say 'arrest', I mean real police guards before your door, not to stop the Chileans from entering, but to stop you from going out, and bed restraints. Do you know what is this?" He threw a broad, rounded piece of metal on the blanket, causing Eliot to flinch. Nate flinched too; Eliot was locked and loaded. But Bonnano didn't see that, and he continued. "Four of them, for your wrists and ankles, not leather, but metal, Eliot. That even you can't break, or unlock, when they're connected to the bed. And I won't hesitate a second, everything is already prepared."

"You have no idea what are you doing!" Eliot hissed.

"I know exactly what I'm doing! If you think I'll play nice in situation like this, then you don't know me at all!" Bonnano was on his feet again. "I won't let you murder a man, I don't want to go after you and put you in jail!"

"Don't corner him, Patrick!" Nate jumped on his feet, unable to sit still. "It's enough, don't try to make him speak, not now! Finish it, call the guards and tie him up!"

But then Eliot smiled; a fierce, bare teeth smile that froze all of them. "To murder a man?" he slowly repeated, his voice constrained and ferocious. "That is _the worst_ thing imaginable in your world, Patrick? In your small, tidy, neat world full of rules and order? You think _that_ is the worst thing I'll do when I go out? You stupid, naïve fool." he choked a laugh. "It may be for you, Patrick, but not for me! Don't you get it? _Not for_ _me_. You don't even know that there are the worse things than murdering one man, you can't understand that!"

Patrick stared at him, leaning against the railings with the both hands, and Nate could hear the warning bell ringing in the back of his mind, growing stronger.

"You're delusional and half crazy, you're danger for yourself and everyone around you!" Bonnano's fist slammed into the cupboard with a bang that shook all of them, except Eliot. He wasn't flinching anymore. Bad sign. "It's over now, do you hear me? No more messing with the morphine, because you won't be able to reach that damn tube, no more getting up, because you won't be able to move your legs, no more fucking plants, papers and mirrors! Enough! After a two weeks, maybe, you'll come to your senses, and _then_ we shall talk about murdering!"

Eliot said nothing. He was staring right into Bonnano's eyes. Not still, frozen.

"Patrick, please, _finish_ it." Nate managed to whisper. "And don't make any more sudden moves."

"Do you have anything to say, or we are done? Think good, you have only one chance."

Eliot didn't even blink, as if he hadn't heard a word, and in that long moment of consternated silence, Nate realized what was wrong, what was his mind trying to tell him…To _remind_ him of.

He leaned against the table, feeling his legs go rubbery. "Patrick, I need you to step away from him, now! Go out, find Betsy and bring her in! Hurry!"

But it was too late. Nate could hear those eerie sounds now clearly, growing from the background, slowly, but inevitably, as heat rose.

Eliot slowly turned his eyes away from Patrick, and looked at the metal cuffs on the bed. "That would…" he whispered, but his voice broke. He inhaled a jagged breath and tried again. "… w-would be… a huge mista-"

"Eliot? What's wrong?"

Eliot didn't respond. He slowly swayed and started to fall backwards, as all the alarms in the room exploded at the same time, wailing loudly their warning sounds.

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Every single piece of equipment started to howl in its own frequency, deafeningly loud even when lowered. Nate backed away from monitor, but the sounds followed him; slamming of the door, many quick steps, raised female voices, and above all, the sharp wailing of alarms that wouldn't stop.

A very distinctive wailing, he thought as his brain went through every single one of them, keeping him frozen, unable to breathe, through endless seconds. When he counted all of them, and those that weren't heard, he managed to take the first breath.

One more set of quick steps was heard, but behind him, and he reached without turning around, and caught Sophie on her way to door.

"No, don't go in there. Sit." he whispered.

"Let me go!" she snatched her hand from her grasp.

"He's okay, Soph. Calm down and sit." He pulled her back to the table where Parker was curled beneath Hardison's arm, with both hands pressed to her ears.

"How can you kno-" She stopped and bit her lip.

"I _know_. Sit," he repeated, putting her back into the chair, then tapped Hardison on the shoulder. "Lower those sounds if you can, I need to hear Patrick."

It took almost ten seconds until the hacker managed to stroke the three keys in the right order, and Nate waited patiently. They were all still staring at the mess in the room, mostly at the backs of people around the bed. He reached over and turned the monitor off, and they all looked at him in shock.

"Get yourselves together. No more horror movies."

"Wh-" Hardison choked.

"He's fine. It looks terrifying, but it's not. Parker, look at me." She slowly emerged, with stricken eyes. "Trust me," he said simply.

She stared at him, then nodded.

Hardison managed to lower the noise finally. "Patrick, can you hear me? Go out of the room and close the door."

"He's okay, alive and stable…they're giving him oxygen and stuff. Give me a few more minutes, then I'll be able to tell you the facts."

"Okay, take your time."

Nate sat on the table and looked at the three in the chairs in front of him. He waited a few seconds until he was sure his voice was calm and reasonable. And steady. "Hardison, cut Bonnano off the comms. When he calls, put the phone on speaker."

Hardison did it, and he could see how the sudden silence instantly relaxed them.

He smiled at the youngest two, not daring to look at Sophie and the dark pity in her eyes.

"Hardison, when you give too many orders to your computers at the same time, they freeze, right?"

"Not mine. But, yeah, generally it's true."

"He was in the flight or fight mode, possibly for a long time, even before Bonnano came in. Then Bonnano cornered him and made it even worse, threatening him and speeding everything up. He wasn't able to flee, and he didn't want to fight; these reactions are not controlled, it's instinctive, and can't be stopped. Too much adrenaline, the inability to react in any way, and weakness, all together, too quickly, rapidly growing as the threat rose - this was a shutdown, his circuits burned out. That's all."

"It sure looked like-" Hardison went silent when the phone rang, and he put it on speaker.

"Betsy says its stress-induced sinus tachycardia and hyperventilation, " Bonnano did sound tensed, but not worried. "Both of them don't have any after effects, they're not conditions that need to be treated in any way. Though, there will be tests to check it. She also said that he didn't have any morphine in his blood; if he had, he would gone into respiratory arrest, this is completely opposite. They gave him something heavy to calm him down, and he's on oxygen. Also, she said his stress levels were extremely high, and added something about numbers and strange words I couldn't quite catch because she mixed them with so many inappropriate words…" he sighed. "I'm sorry. It was a mistake to press him so hard. I should have stopped earlier."

"You made just one mistake, Patrick. You let him be without those restraints. Would you please go back and cuff him to that damn bed?"

Bonnano swore. "Jesus, you just witnessed him almost- and all you can think about is putting him in chains?"

"Pretty accurate, yes."

"Well, I can't do that," Patrick snapped. "I've almost killed him, I won't try that again. If I cuff him, he may freak out again, and what then? Besides, Betsy said to not even think about it until tomorrow, after they do some tests and see if this attack may happen again, and what caused it. He can't be chained if it happens again."

"What about real guards?"

"That was bluffing. For that, I'd have to arrest him for real, and we agreed it wouldn't be the brightest idea, right?"

"So, we did exactly the worst thing we could… we warned an enemy of our every possible move, and we let him make the appropriate plans according to them. We just threatened him. And now we can wave goodbye to him."

"Betsy says he's in bad shape, and all of this weakened him even more. Frank's been warned, and if he tries to leave, he'll stop him. Nothing has changed, Nate. Except we bought ourselves a little more time. We shall make it through this third day, and he'll still be here."

Nate said nothing.

"I'll wait 'til he's able to talk again, and we'll see where we are. In meantime, speaking of the enemy, I have to go now. Betsy wants to talk with me. Pray," he sighed and ended the call.

"What now?" Sophie asked when the silence became too long.

"Since Bonnano will be there for a while, you're free to do… whatever. Go out of here, but watch your step and don't go too far."

Hardison glanced at his screens.

"I said, get out. Now, it's an order. Sit in the cafeteria, in the sun, and drink something. Together. Go." They got up, still shaken. Sophie nudged the other two in front of her, and turned to him with a clear question in her eyes, but he just shook his head, and pointed at the two of them. She hesitated, but it was clear what was priority right now, and followed them.

He waited until they locked the door, then he slowly got up and went into bathroom.

Cold water didn't help, his eyes were burning. He stared in the mirror for almost a minute, while the wailing continued to echo in his head without pause, without rest. He just stared and listened, unable to shut it off.

He didn't know who the man was that stared back at him. He couldn't recognize those haunted eyes anymore.

However, he knew which one of them wouldn't be allowed to leave of that bathroom.

Bonnano had failed in stopping Eliot. Now it was _his_ turn.

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It took almost half an hour for his hands to stop shaking. They gave him something strange, some sort of muscle relaxant, not morphine, and he couldn't avoid it. He was pretty sure Betsy darted him with an elephant tranquilizer. Not as if he cared anymore. At least, pain was duller. He was just laying still, breathing clean oxygen that was cleaning his mind, trying to rest a little. Perfectly calm.

He really missed that feeling. Eliot smiled, wondering if it would be better if he'd managed to achieve this state of calmness yesterday, if he would now be in better shape. He didn't know. Maybe it was better that he spent all this time torn apart with doubt about his decisions, asking himself what if he was wrong.

It sure was great to know now, with absolute certainty, that he was right. _About __every single damn thing._

He slowly opened his eyes and looked at the metal restraint that someone threw away in the corner of the room. Or maybe Bonnano left it there, knowing he'd see it and remind himself of the first thing that awaited him when they finished analyzing this attack. He was lucky for now, literally saved by the bell.

He smiled again when he remembered how close he was to missing everything. He was too concentrated to control every move, every thought, every instinct that was going wild inside him, and it was harder than ever to keep clear that part of the brain, the small inner calm, analyzing voice that was always untouched by every influence from outside. This time, even that separated part was feeling pretty anxious. God, just a second of slipped attention would have been enough to miss it, to just hear it and not notice it among all the other things that Patrick had said.

… _no more getting up, because you won't be able to move your legs_…

Sometimes, it was good to be paranoid, and to question everything and everybody, automatically. All thoughts of chains and guards left his mind when he stopped listening to Patrick, thinking about only one thing: _how_ the fuck he could know he was standing? The nurses didn't see it. He left no traces. And yet, he recalled later, Bonnano entered his room behaving like a man with a mission; he _knew_ he was trying to get up, and he came to stop him in everything, knowing it was the beginning of leaving. He came _because_ of it. He had seen it, or he had been told about it. Bonnano wouldn't bug his room.

No, _Bonnano_ wouldn't.

Just remembering that moment when he had realized _who_ did it, and what that meant, was enough to hasten his breathing again, and he slowly inhaled, trying to calm down.

He didn't need a confirmation, he learned a long time ago that presumptions were sometimes much better than clear facts; when relying on firm facts, a man could get himself in deep trouble when they suddenly changed. When working only on presumptions, everything was fluid and able to change in the wanted direction. But he got that confirmation nevertheless, just a few seconds after he froze; only a moment long, a barely visible empty stare at the end of the sentence. Bonnano's eyes were fixed on his, but they were looking through him, his mind wasn't there for a second. He was listening to someone on the other side of the line.

Thank god he had oxygen now; he almost felt again how much the wrath and terror grew in barely three breaths, speeding up his heart, and exploding in his skull. He concentrated only on breathing slowly, not wanting Betsy to rush into the room alarmed about the beeping again.

He needed peace and quiet to contemplate about ripping Nate's head off.

He should have known he didn't stand a chance against him; he was played, fooled, lulled into a false sense of security, he was monitored and listened to and… no, not listened to. If the camera had sound, Bonnano wouldn't have to wear an earbud. But it made no difference.

All that he'd feared from the beginning was happening, right now.

They were here. Not far away, not safe, not far from danger, they were in fucking Boston, in the reach of everybody that was seeking them. The beeping grew louder and he swore, unable to calm down. He played back every phone call in his head, everything that was said, and how it was said. Nate let him continue with this charade, using Bonnano as a tool. Villacorta was a damn amateur, the real spider was inside another web, and very close. And he was pulling its strings around the fly he'd caught.

He sat in the bed, although he wasn't supposed to do anything but lay down. It was good to know he beat a muscle relaxant without even trying to do it; maybe if he added that to his list, he would manage to mix up something really good to try out. At least he would have something to play with, like a monkey in a cage in front of the public.

They were in Boston, and everything he'd relied on in the past two days, everything he was counting on, was torn into pieces. He knew he shouldn't have trusted the damn treacherous facts, they were giving him a false security.

He had to start everything over, to question everything that Nate said. Christ, he couldn't even trust that they are _all_ alive, Nate certainly wouldn't tell him if anything happened. They spoke this morning, on speakerphone, but he heard only Nate, no one else. At least, _he_ was alive. And Parker last night. Sophie was alive last evening. Hardison? Nothing from him since yesterday, when he called them for the first time.

Eliot contemplated banging his head on the cupboard, but he could imagine the flow of information that would, in less than a minute, bring Bonnano back on a crusade. Poor Patrick, he didn't deserve to be involved in this fuck up.

He reached for the phone, and that reminded him of yesterday, when he was desperate and frightened, when he didn't know if they escaped, or if they were already dead. One step forward, two steps back. He couldn't call them now, again. He wasn't sure about his own reactions, and talking would be dangerous. If he let Nate to figure out that he knew, now, where they were, it would change everything, he would stop being careful and invisible about pulling the strings, and he would hit hard.

"What have you done, you fucking idiot?" he said to the phone. The phone said nothing. It didn't have to. Eliot knew what Nate had done; 'we are good, safe, everything is okay, no need to go anywhere, we have time for everything, just be still and recover, we are patient and far away from any danger'… all of that, in every fucking phone call, in careful dosage, subtle and calming and smooth. And he trusted it.

Oh yeah, he trusted that son of the bitch, always did, and that was the problem. Even now, his fear was trying to deceive him back into that state when he was tortured with 'what ifs'. What if he was wrong, 'cause they were obviously here, _and_ alive? What if he just called Nate and let him take over everything, 'cause he was manifestly already in control?

He didn't want to leave here, he dreaded every single step that lay before him, and that was the weak spot his fear was using. But his mind knew he was right, from the beginning, without any doubt. Now more than ever.

The time had just run out, he had to get started.

'Cause they weren't just here. They were here because of him.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

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In merely fifteen minutes, Hardison had repeated three times just how close Bonnano was to being killed, every time with different words and a different dose of consternation and dismay, and it seemed his brain was stuck in that loop, making him unable to think about anything else he had seen.

Sophie didn't bother to tell him he was wrong. She could tell him everything about violence, and controlling it, she remembered every single word of what Eliot had told her about it and she knew Bonnano wasn't in danger. It wouldn't change anything, Hardison wouldn't believe her anyway. Instead of showing her annoyance with the whining hacker, she concentrated on Parker who was drinking her juice, firmly holding Hardison's hand, never letting it go. Sophie knew she was in bad shape herself, because it took the next fifteen minutes of hard work to relax the thief enough to make her speak of her favorite diamond.

She intended to keep them out of the office as long as she could, knowing that demons were hard to chase away, and that Nate would need days to recover from this. She could buy him an hour, for starters.

Those two would be okay; they were shaken and upset, but very soon, work would preoccupy them and straighten them out again. She nudged Hardison into solving a problem with Lucille, something he totally forgot, and smiled while he was talking about all the possible ways to make them invisible in the traffic, but her mind was not in the hospital cafeteria.

She wasn't planning to tell Nate that Eliot had realized they were here and that he was being watched, and that was the thing that threw him over the edge. Both Nate and Bonnano were too focused on words, and they were connecting Eliot's body language only to them, but she knew from the moment she saw him, that the thing he was fighting with wasn't Bonnano or his threats. Whether it was pain, or drugs, or who knows what, it was bad, very bad, and it consumed almost all of his control. He would act the same if he was alone in the room, or if he was speaking with the nurses. Knowing that, it was easy to notice only one, single reaction to Patrick's _words_. Patrick said something that shook him and made him completely still, so even the thing he was trying to beat was forgotten and unimportant for a moment. She went back through that sentence, and she figured out what it was when the waitress brought them their drinks. Getting up from the bed, something no one was supposed to see.

Looking back now, she wondered how Nate couldn't connect the dots, but it was understandable. Just like Hardison, he also feared that Eliot would snap and kill Patrick. She wasn't burdened with that and she could pay attention to the whole picture.

She wouldn't tell him anything about it, at least not now. There wasn't anything Eliot could do anyway, not anymore, especially now when Nate was sitting in a dark room, practicing his precious cruelty, deciding what would be _his_ next step in this. He would squash Eliot's every attempt to do anything.

Nate was falling apart by merely thinking of everything he might have to do to keep them all alive, and she certainly wouldn't push him in the wrong direction and make him step over the line.

"But of course, darling." She smiled and purred when Hardison finished his lamentation about how dangerous it would be to search for the Chilean car bombs. "We'll all help you, don't worry about that. After all, the one who stood by you 'til the very end the last time this happened, is now busy with something else."

Hardison flinched.

She could help them all to pass through this, she could fix them, calm them, and make them feel better. All of them, except the only one that really needed it. And that was pissing her off.

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Lesson one: How to kill your own team, in ten easy steps.

Step one: get yourself shot, badly. Tell them to leave.

Step two: try to remain shot, badly. Make them come back because of that. (_because they're fucking idiots_, IDIOTS, _who never listen_.)

Step three: Make sure you're still badly shot. After that, try to stay in that condition as long as possible, so they would have enough time to stop you in trying to fix the problem that is about to kill them.

Step four: repeat step three as much as needed. While waiting, persuade nurses you need medical alcohol and drink yourself into oblivion.

Step five: add a fistful of Chileans to all steps, and stir everything with a cop. And yes, don't forget to connect every other thought to some sort of insect. Spiders, flies, butterflies… wait for the chance to involve mosquitoes, preferably in some dramatic moment.

Step six: go out, get a gun, kill them all, laugh, THEN move onto the Chileans. (Kill the cop too).

Step seven: ignore and avoid step six as long as you can. Try hard.

Step eight: make sure they know everything you plan and think, be watched all the time, and _do_ continue to think you can just leave unnoticed and do what has to be done so that the bunch of idiots (IDIOTS) can stay alive for a little longer. Talk to them by phone as often as you can, and _do_ tell them everything you plan, and especially when you're going to do it.

Step nine: perform seppuku with scalpel. Nope, that shit will beep again and summon Betsy. Destroy all machines, and then kill yourself. (except if that redhead nurse comes instead of Betsy, then allow her to stop you after a short negotiation that would make her come closer so you can finally see if she is really as beautiful as you observed the first time in those few too short seconds)

Step ten: Don't forget to drive yourself into complete madness during the previous steps, it will add a dramatic note and raise the tension.

Eliot spent ten minutes carefully destroying the paper, not sure if he was grinning because of what was written on it, or if it was good to finally rip apart something, or merely that the elephant tranquilizer was really good shit.

_Mosquitoes, for God's sake_. He was lucky he made it through the last night with hallucinations before he thought of them.

When he looked at the shredded paper, his grin faded, as he remembered all the problems that he hadn't yet solved. The calculations were pretty much finished, the second extreme of the Phase Two was finished as well, he only had to think about arranging all that in coherent order. Not only had he collected enough morphine, he even managed to find it; the syringe was, luckily, invisible and hidden in the mess he'd made. Scalpel too. When Bonnano was circling around his bed, he thrust it deep into the pillow and it would remain there until he needed it. He even managed to miss it when he fell. Thinking better of it, he sent a syringe after the scalpel, knowing that Bonnano's threats weren't empty, and that this was just a time out. They would be safe inside the pillow, the small incision in the fabric was almost invisible.

God, it was such a relief not to be in doubt any more, and not have to ask himself if he should go, if he was making a mistake, when, how, why…. He returned himself in step by step mode, and erased every thought about the Chileans, and all that he had to do after he got out, concentrating just on now.

It was about noon, and he had enough time to prepare everything before the night fell. His main plan was to go out at dawn, when the night shift was tired and sleepy, but every damn minute he was in that bed was increasing the chances for the team being discovered. And giving Nate more time to think of something efficient.

He wouldn't call them yet, no. Sooner or later, he would find out if they were all alive, if Hardison was alive, and then he would think about- he froze when he remembered that strange call from the last night, and Sophie's rambling about hand grenades.

He'd been drugged and slow then, and he wasn't sure if he remembered it clearly, yet knowing now they weren't in fact far from danger, he had to ask himself why they had called him in the first place. Something _was_ happening around them, obviously… but why call him? They were recording him, they knew he had his lights out, they didn't have to check what he was doing.

Then he remembered simultaneous attacks, remembered the rare and strangely superficial visits from the nurses all last night, and felt again the thumping of the blood in his head. Not only were they in Boston and close, they were _here_, in the hospital. And nobody was guarding _them_. Villacorta was using him as a sitting duck to allure the others, knowing they would stay close. He didn't even have to bother with searching across the town, he knew where they were. Every damn minute he was still here was increasing their chances to- Jesus, if they attacked the previous night, tonight's attack was already being prepared, and he couldn't wait until dawn, he had to get going much earlier, and make sure Villacorta would know he was no longer in the hospital. That wouldn't be a problem, but all the rest, with so much less time-

"Your blood pressure is rising again, Mr. Crane," a voice from the door startled him. It took less than a minute for a nurse to come and check on him, which meant they had put him under constant surveillance. He hoped it was because of his readings, and not because Betsy ordered them to monitor his every single move.

"Where is Betsy?" he asked the young nurse. Scared and pretty. And blond. _Where is the redhead?_

"Busy." She entered the room, but left the door slightly open, and he could see one leg of a man that was sitting in the hall. "I have to write down this change in readings on your chart. Do not try to move, please."

"Why would I move?" he followed her careful steps, wondering what Betsy had told them, and what other obstacles he would have to deal with. "Were you here last night, Miss?"

"No, I came in this morning."

"But you've heard that something happened, right?"

She darted him a glance. "We are not supposed to talk to you about that."

And he thought that they had some sort of IQ test when applying for the job. "Not unless I already know," he smiled. "And you can see I know, right? I was just worried about your co-workers, they must have been pretty scared."

"Oh, yes, they were." She sighed while writing. "Rosalie said she was used to death, but not to the dead bodies in the _hall_ … our patients die in beds, you know? It was strange, with all those lights that went out, and security all over the place, and people running around… scary."

"One of the security was killed?" he said through a smile, but she lost her concentration, looking at his jumping readings. Damn wires.

"No, a John Doe. If you want, I can tell Rosalie to tell you all the details, she is coming in this afternoon. Oh, no, she won't be here, she has desk duty in the lobby today. What are those papers?"

"What?" he blinked. Ah, the shredded paper. "Just something to get rid of."

She cautiously stepped closer and he handed the paper to her, noticing she flinched when he stretched his arm. Great.

"Thank you," he smiled again, but she was already gone, closing the door.

One dead. Unknown.

Able or not, he had to call Nate to find out, and he grabbed the phone and dialed the number before he changed his mind.

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"Eliot." Nate sounded tired and worried. "You okay?"

Eliot raised his eyebrows, noticing that was an involuntary slip that just by chance didn't sound totally suspicious. "Yes, just bored. Middleton is not exactly the center of fun." God, he found himself reminding Nate Ford that he knows about his stay in hospital, and that Eliot doesn't know that Nate knows that. Or something like that; he lost track of who was supposed to know what. "Are you drinking?" He bit his tongue, aware that the question might suggest to Nate that he knew he had reasons to sound tired and upset and in need of a drink. He buried his face in his free hand, and stopped a growl just in time. No, he wasn't skilled enough for this triple lying and deceiving. Yes, this call _was_ a mistake. Definitely. "Forget it," he said with a sigh. "It's become a habit to ask that. I'm sorry." Great, the 'sorry' was even more suspicious, he couldn't remember the last time he apologized for anything to anyone. _Idiot_.

"Are you?" Nate sounded as he smirked, and Eliot sighed in relief. Maybe he hadn't started thinking, maybe he managed to stop it before it started. Yet, that wasn't an encouraging thought either. No matter how much he would like it that Nate was not at his best when he started to mess with his plans, he had witnessed how devastating and dangerous it was when Nate was in bad shape. He needed him to be calm, confident, and able to do everything.

"Sort of." He sighed again. Yes, he should also think about _how_ to ask him if Hardison was alive. "Erm… where are the others?"

"I let them out for half an hour, they needed some air."

He bet they did. He couldn't remember almost anything that happened after everything went red and black, just a noise, but he could imagine that it was quite a show. And then he remembered Nate's _thing_ with hospitals, and almost felt guilty for putting him through that shit. He shouldn't feel this warmth; that bastard was messing with his plans, and risking the lives of all of them, yet he knew Nate's spiraling down often started with this feeling.

He stared at the window across the street. "You know…" he hesitated, not certain of what to say to him, mindful of all the traps he could step in. Then he listened to the dark silence at the other end. And it hurt. "Sometimes it's better when all the shit that's happening is gathered in just a few days, rather than prolonged. When shit happen fast, you don't have time to worry, you're just doing things… much better than a long time gnawing on boring problems."

"Is that so?" Nate smiled. "That library is clearly messing with your head. What motivational crap are you reading, anyway? Self help books?"

"Self help books, how appropriate," he almost laughed at that. He was _writing_ one. "No, I'm just bored. I don't really have anything to say to you." When he said that, he remembered those were the exact words Parker told him last night, and he closed his eyes, suddenly becoming aware of why she asked him if he was coming back. Damn, were they listening to all his talks with Patrick? No, he would have seen that comm earlier. But Patrick had obviously told them too much, too early.

"Being bored is good." Nate sighed, and that drew him out of thinking about the _feelings_ that Patrick might referred to them.

"You're getting old. And soft." He quickly said. "What happened to the thrill of the chase, Nate? Is Villacorta not interesting enough?"

"My God, please don't tell me you're reading some amateur positive psychology!"

"What? Avoiding the question with a question, that's amateurish. What are _you_ reading lately?"

"Nothing that will interest you. Tell me, what interesting facts have you found on Villacorta? Weak spots?"

Damn. He shouldn't mention that. Nate would use everything he said to try to guess what he would do, and he couldn't tell him that. On the other hand, everything he said might be useful at some point for them, in case they hadn't thought about it. After all, he was the only one who was an expert on guys with guns.

"The problem with Villacorta is that we don't have any real intel on him – we have data, but we couldn't get near him and see, for real, who he is. Forget what Hardison said about power and respect, Villacorta doesn't need to _keep_ it to be the Boss. He is a natural. It comes with him, in one pretty nasty package. All he has to do is to control it. And that is the only weak spot that I can see without any real information; if you take away that control of himself, his surroundings, his men… maybe then, he would reveal a weak spot. His _priority_ is to control everything. Does that remind you of someone?"

He waited, knowing that Nate's thoughts were going in two parallel directions right now: following his remarks on the opponent, and fitting his words into his actions that he was trying to guess.

"When are they supposed to be back from that half hour break?" he asked to stop him from going too deep. "I have to speak with Hardison."

"About what?"

"To see if he's alive, or if you're lying to me." He sighed, deciding it was the best to occasionally tell the truth. He was tired of lies.

"They are all alive, Eliot. And well." He listened, trying to guess if it was a lie within a lie, or the truth in a lie, or a lie in the truth, and felt something bitter when he realized he couldn't guess it, not anymore. He couldn't tell if one, small, simple sentence was a lie. Nate was probably feeling the same about every word he'd said to him.

Damn.

"Of course they are," he let his broad smile be heard. "But tell him to call me anyway."

Yep, Nate was definitely thinking about the same thing, Eliot could feel the tension at the other end, which wasn't as good as it seemed; that sort of awareness he had only for opponents.

"Nate, no matter what happens, no matter what the situation is, I need you to tell me if anything happened to them. I have to know it. You owe me that."

Another long silence. "Okay, I can do that." Nate finally nodded. And then he rubbed his forehead; Eliot could see the actions as if he was standing right in front of him. He smiled, feeling all the bitterness fading away, leaving him again with that damn _warmth_.

"Hey…when you're worried, they are… no, _we_ are worried too," he said softly. "Stop it. I don't - I _can't_ allow myself to be worried about you, not now when I'm not close. I _have to_ be sure you'll take care of everything. Of everyone. Like you always do." And he really had to believe it, because without that, none of this would have a point, it would be futile and in vain.

Damn, he was talking as much as Hardison, he was starting to sound like Sophie, he only needed to become crazy as Par- okay, scratch that. He was way beyond crazy already. All in all, he was ruined. Forever.

"I gotta go," he said when he realized that speaking with Nate, no matter how dangerous and tensed it was, was comforting him, bringing him back to the times when everything went well. He ended the call before Nate could say anything, not wanting to hear his voice. For a long, long moment, he found himself desperately needing Nate to save him from the night that awaited him, but he knew it was just fear playing with him again.

_He_ had set this board they were playing on, _he_ gave them their roles, and chose one for himself. A pawn could never be saved by the king, they were only used to clear the table. He knew that from the beginning.

More importantly, he _knew_ the butterflies were not a mere hallucination from the morphine. And, he knew that from the beginning, too.

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The very first thing Hardison noticed when he entered the office, after he left Sophie and Parker to finish their drinks, was something flying across the room. That crushed into pieces when it hit the second boob on the wall, and he ducked to avoid a small plastic part.

He picked it up and stared at Nate.

"Have you just thrown your phone into the wall?" he asked politely. "Your expensive phone, full of very useful programs and applications, which I spent hours to-"

He shut his mouth when Nate looked at him, with pissed, _deadly_ eyes. Hell, the man was way beyond pissed, he looked worse than any depression wreck that Hardison had a chance to witness. "Something happened?" he asked wearily.

"Nothing important, and nothing to worry about. Call Eliot, he said he wants to talk to you."

"Why?" he asked, feeling his back going stiff. "I can't talk right now. I'll call him later, I've got tons of work to do."

Nate just watched him. "Good you're here," he continued after a second silence. "I have to talk to you."

He wondered what it would be about, he was pretty sure he wouldn't like it, but he didn't have a chance to ask.

"Yes, I thought so." A deep voice behind his back made Hardison jump away and turn around to meet Bonnano's grim eyes that were watching him with disdain.

"What, how-"

"I was walking five steps behind you from the hospital, including those stairs. Just to see how your self preservation is going lately. I'm afraid your survival rate will be none to zero."

"Patrick," Nate stopped him. "Come, let's go out. We've got work to do."

"You think Eliot is ready for another visit?"

"Yes, he is. Take me to Betsy."

"Whoa, Nate, wait," Hardison jumped in. "What are you going to do?"

"To take care of everything." Nate said slowly with a painful half-smile that didn't belong to him at all. "And everyone. Like I always do."

Hardison watched them leaving, not liking the combination of those words, and those deadly eyes. Not liking it at all. He took a deep breath of relief when they shut the door, leaving him alone, and went to pick up the pieces of the phone. If the card was intact, he would just put it in another phone.

After that, he went to his computers to start online orders and arrange the delivery of everything he needed for tonight. That would keep him occupied long enough to forget the question that was keeping his gut cold and clenched.

_What the hell can be worse than murdering a man_?

He wasn't sure his world would survive if he found out the answer.

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It was pretty understandable why it took him almost an hour, after he realized they were in the hospital_, too fucking near_, to connect the dots, and figure out about the damn lit window in the building across the street. He was tired and drugged, but nevertheless, he couldn't allow himself to be slow, not anymore. He had no time for _slow_.

They had to make a base camp, Lucille wasn't good for a prolonged stay, and knowing Hardison, he probably bought an entire building just to make sure they would have the best positioned apartment. Or office, whatever.

Eliot wasn't sure which part of the hospital he was in, but a silent _brunette_ that hurried in to check why he was making machines to speed up again, told him it was Blossom Street when he asked her about the architectural beauties in the surrounding neighborhood. He didn't ask anything else, not knowing if the nurses were instructed to tell everything he said to Betsy or Bonnano. He certainly had no intentions to ask about any redhead, he decided to be patient and just wait for her to show up.

He had a phone, after all. He searched real estate agencies, made a few calls, and found an office that was sold '… _just yesterday morning after almost six months on the market, we're so sorry, you missed it by one day, but we have another… no? Okay, call us again tomorrow, maybe we'll have one more in that building. Good day to you too, Sir.'_

He spent a few extremely pleasant minutes contemplating about sniper fire that would make them crawl on all fours for the next two days, but the delivery and supply of ammunition were, _for now_, too complicated.

He had the other deliveries to think of.

Hardison was wrong; he knew where his accounts were, okay, some of them. Point was that Hardison didn't know about all of them.

He started his search in the neighborhood, because when the time came, the delivery should arrive in less than fifteen minutes, and it narrowed his options a little. He found five possible targets and then took a break, tired more from that gruesome internet stuff, than of anything else. He knew people did it for fun, but it was _weird_. Almost like reading a book on those small screens that were so popular now; nothing could replace the smell of old books, or the feel of worn out paper.

He went back to the mirror routine, remembering that all of this mess had made a hole in his measurements. Reluctantly, he included the muscle relaxant effects in that mess – it wouldn't add anything new, but he had nothing more clever to do right now.

When he went to the second set of papers, with the blood loss calculations, he had to sigh. That shit was clearly not finished, and at this rate, he couldn't count on solving it before evening. He bend over to peek at the readings on Pleurevac, satisfied that he didn't need a mirror anymore for that, but numbers were not encouraging. His blood leak was constant, slow but steady, and he didn't see any improvement. Betsy said it wouldn't stop for days, and he could only hope that she simply wasn't right. After all, he wasn't an average patient, and many of the rules couldn't apply to him. He noted the amount of blood, calculated its rate per hours, and the only positive thing he could say was that wasn't getting worse.

He closed his eyes, thinking about colors. Black was useful, maybe deep purple or dark gray, nothing too light… and it was good he was in that position, because another nurse was visiting him. Betsy, with her quick, silent steps. And Bonnano after her. And the four _fucking idiots_, that would again listen to every word. This room was too small for crowd of that size.

Betsy and Bonnano together, that wasn't good, he barely managed to deal with them when separated, one at the time. But those four… people who knew him, who could see through him, it was… disaster. He tried to imagine Sophie, listening silently, with attentive, dark eyes, watching his every move, reading every feeling… _Jesus_.

And all he had to do was to calm Patrick and stop him from pressing, charm Betsy and remove the surveillance, assure Nate he is unable to do anything, and sell to Sophie that he is beaten.

Damn, he didn't need _Nate_ to be the one who he would fight, he was barely able to fight himself. He had no strength, nor the skills to win this.

A mindless pump had given him too much trouble… and now, he had _Nathan Ford_ against him, in clear, open war. The only advantage that was still on his side, if any, was that Nate didn't know he was now warned, that he knew who he would really be fighting.

As if it would change anything.

No wonder he was grinning when he opened his eyes to let them know he was awake, but at the last second, he slowed the movement of the eyes into something tired. Betsy wasn't in his room after the attack, and she couldn't know how he was really feeling. To tell the truth, he didn't know how he was supposed to feel after that attack, but some average person would certainly be in very, very bad shape. _Yeah, speaking of that_…

"Not you again…" he murmured, not sure what tone of voice he should use.

"You won't freak again, will you?" Bonnano asked carefully, observing him from a distance. "You look like crap."

"Yep. I do," he whispered, than added with an evil grin. "Headache." His eyes followed Betsy who went to his chart and started writing, silent and not looking very cheerful. "Why don't you drag one more bed in here, and save yourself the constant coming and leaving?"

"Easy there… I'm married." Bonnano sat in the chair.

"Okay, then I won't mention your drooling on the nurses in front of Betsy." He glanced at Betsy, but she didn't react. What the hell was going on in here?

"I can't chain you to the bed until tomorrow," Bonnano said if he was talking about a temporary inability to bring him coffee, and the absurdity almost made him laugh. He carefully stopped it.

"You don't have to bother with that anymore," he slowly said, with a wry smile, letting all the exhaustion he felt be seen. He should have been worried it was so easy, but for now, it worked for him, not against him. "Next time, when you try to keep me here, just knock me down. I can even show you where exactly to hit me. This… breathing shit… is too exhausting."

Bonnano sighed, not looking very happy, but Eliot was looking at Betsy now, checking her reaction; it didn't seem like she would all of a sudden tell him to cut the bullshit. He didn't dare think about what the other audience was thinking right now.

"So, why are you here again?" he asked Bonnano. "To see if I'm pissed? No, I'm not pissed at you. If you were here in this bed, you _don't_ want to know what I would do to stop you from doing exactly the same thing. Go home, Patrick. We're okay." He leaned back into the pillows and slowly closed his eyes. "And don't worry…" he added with not so acted bitterness in his voice. "I'll be right here tomorrow, so you can play with your chains as much as you wish."

"You're kidding about the headache, right?" Betsy asked from the other side of the bed, and it ruined his dramatic show of closing his eyes. It wouldn't be polite not to look at her. She obviously had many ways to say 'stop that bullshit'.

"Yes, of course, a headache is the least of my worries right now. Why?"

She put a tray with some bandages next to him and started to check his tubes and IV's. "Because it's the one of the things nurses have to know," she said patiently. "As well as anything new. You had a few elevated readings again, what happened?"

"Thinkin' happened."

"Good you mentioned that." Bonnano said from his chair, and he turned his head to look at him, suddenly becoming aware that he was surrounded. Betsy wasn't a threat and her closing in at the other side felt normal. "Your thinking is the thing we have to stop, not your ability to walk." Great, that wasn't Bonnano talking. He knew that brain too well. "For the walking part, my guards have orders to stop you. I gave them wired tasers, they don't have to come close to knock you down, the wire is over the three meters long."

"That will certainly help my recovery," he managed to say it calmly, then he looked at Betsy. "You approved that?"

"To humor him," she said with a brief smile. "It won't be necessary, but he'll feel safer."

"This is going with me." When he looked at Bonnano again, his papers were in the cops hands. He put them in his jacket, and Eliot breathed in, slowly, trying to show weakness and not his wish to feed the cop with them.

"They are useless, nevertheless," he murmured quietly. Arabic letters and Hebrew numbers would be an insuperable obstacle even for Nate and Hardison, _if that idiot was still alive, he hadn't called_. Even if they managed to find someone to translate it, they wouldn't be able to understand its meaning. He wrote only abbreviations and numbers, nothing else. But _he_ needed them for his final decisions.

"Poetry is never useless," said Betsy. "The pen is mightier than the sword, isn't it?"

"Very funny," he sighed, glancing at what she was doing just for a second. She was obviously there at his left side just to distract him from Bonnano's snatching his things on the right. This would be hilarious if they were in some different situation, but now, their little play was dangerous. No, not theirs; this was Nate's move, not Bonnano's, he reminded himself, which meant there was nothing hilarious about it, all of this was just a distraction for something else.

"The phones are going as well." When Bonnano said that, he stayed silent. Dangerous just became deadly.

"You can't do that," he said as calmly as he could. "I need that cheap one to contact Nate and the others without revealing where I am. They expect me to be in contact with them, and if I don't call them, they'll think something happened. I'm pretty certain they are not completely sure I'm in Middleton. If you want them to return to Boston and start searching for me, go ahead, be my guest. You'll have to deal with that mess, not me." He waited for a reply, and he wasn't surprised when Bonnano's eyes went empty for almost five seconds. However, he wasn't sure if Nate was saying something, or if Bonnano was just trying to get out of _that _with some sort of unsuspicious response_._ _Welcome to the triple lying, Patrick_. "I also told Nate this very morning, that I'll get rid of that cheap one during the day, and send him a new number. What am I supposed to tell him if he asks me why I didn't do it? Tell him that Patrick took them away, and I can't get new ones? With these phones, I can be in touch with the team. They have no other use."

Bonnano was looking at the phones with his head lowered, and yes, now Nate was talking for sure.

"Okay, the cheap one may stay. About those two…Which one is with the data Hardison sent you?"

_Both, of course_. "The black one," he said, and Bonnano checked.

"True. Good." He threw him the black and took the silver one. "You remembered all that anyway. I'll take the silver with me." Well, both phones were dangerous if they came into Nate's hands, but the black one had a call record far more revealing than the silver one, and had the potential to do more damage. This double pass saved him from the very close probability of being stopped immediately, but it was still a fuck up. Damn. This was not good, not good at all. In that moment he realized that there was nothing he was able to do, they were here with already planned moves that he couldn't deflect in any way. It wasn't like he had any voice in it – no bargaining, no negotiations. He almost decided to stop acting, but he changed his mind at the last second, not willing to give away any possible future advantage.

"Will you take my mirror as well?" he asked him wearily. "It's a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands."

"Of course. I would take all the plants too, if they're not already out of your reach. Every single thing in this room can be, and will be used as a weapon or means to escape. I can't chain you to the bed, at least not today, but I can remove from your reach anything you can use."

"I need you to sit now, I have to finish dressing," Betsy saved him from answering that, and he did what she said, waiting for her to fix the bandages again.

Bonnano took the TV remote from the cupboard and stood up, pointing it at the TV, and irritating noise from some studio audience filled the room. "This is something that will keep you occupied," he stated, waving to the TV, but his hand changed its direction, and for a moment stood still in the air. "Or maybe not," he said after a brief silence, turning off the TV. "Who knows what you may watch, and what ideas you may get from it."

Eliot ducked his head to hide a smile. "Paranoia is contagious, I see." He could clearly see in that brief second how it went at the other end of the line; Hardison jumping from his computer, _if he was alive, that moron_, yelling at Bonnano to turn it off, while watching the white noise on his monitors. The TV messed with the camera's signal, obviously. He glanced at the TV, on the wall less than one meter from the window, right in front of the bed. It was yet just another presumption, not a fact… but still useful enough. He'd have enough time to work on it when-

The first sign that something was wrong was the sudden blur of his vision, and he rubbed his eyes, trying to clear them. It didn't work. Maybe this sitting up wasn't so clever, and maybe that attack left him much more weakened than he expected. However, everything getting blurred and starting to double wasn't nearly like the darkening of the vision before losing consciousness. This was… he slowly looked away from Patrick, to Betsy who was studying him seriously. His IV's were disconnected.

"6 milliliters for now, and then 4 every half an hour," she said, showing him the syringe that she connected at his left arm catheter. "A double dose at regular intervals will keep you unable to think, walk and do anything except rest," she continued, and then threw something to Bonnano. "Medical tape, dressings, gauze, and ID from Doctor Sciortino, everything hidden beneath the pillow."

Bonnano swore silently. Nope. Three Bonnano's swore silently. _Fuck_. He felt that damn falling again, when Betsy eased him back on the pillows, and he tried to clear his head, desperately, to think of something… but all that morphine was already in his blood, and it struck hard.

She went to his chart and added more notes. "New therapy has been added, starting now."

Betsy wasn't a distraction for Bonnano, so he could take his things. He was for _her_. She was supposed to be close, Nate knew he wouldn't think of her as a threat, and he directed his attention on Bonnano, while… God, he didn't see it coming, and he should expect…he rubbed his eyes again, but it wasn't helping. He could barely keep them open.

"Like I said, everything you can use would be removed." Bonnano continued, still on his feet; When he turned around Eliot could see the entire morphine pump, together with its stand, disconnected from the other equipment. "No more patient controlled analgesia, no more button and tubes. Every morphine dose will be given directly."

"It's overkill, Patrick," he whispered. No, it wasn't. It was check mate in three swift, elegant moves. Two rooks to kill one pawn. He didn't have a chance. _Dammit, Nate, what have you done?_

"Maybe." Patrick left the pump near the door and came back, leaning on the railings with his elbows. "You did everything you could, Eliot, and more than that, and now it's time to stop." He glanced across the room. "There's nothing you can do, not anymore."

Eliot shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts in some reply, but only thought that whirled in his mind was to tell him to tell Nate he made a mistake.

Bonnano nodded at Betsy and she went out, taking everything with her.

"I'll come again tomorrow to see you. You need to sleep and rest now," he said, following her, but he stopped at the door for a few more seconds, hesitating. "This is the best for you," he said kindly. "You can't handle much more before you break." He waited for response, but Eliot just closed his eyes and waited until the door closed.

He slowly reached onto the cupboard and took the one thing that Bonnano forgot… nope, that Nate forgot, remembering, at the last second, to take the phone as well.

Bonnano didn't get it. Neither did Nate.

'… _before you break._' Yeah, right. It was just a little too late for that.

The point was, how much he could handle _after he was_ _broken_.

For that part, they chose the _very_ worst person to fight with, and to try to stop. He closed his eyes again, and tried to hide a smile.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

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The very first thing Eliot did when he put his thoughts in relative order, after he managed to dismiss all the noise and unimportant things, was assess the damage.

They didn't find the syringe or the scalpel in the pillow, Betsy only looked under it. All of his future supply of morphine was gone and he was left with a barely sufficient amount in the syringe. All of the things that he needed for the chest tube, gone. The very important phone, gone. Papers, gone. He still had two phones, but he couldn't be certain at which point of the day Nate would remember it was dangerous to leave him with those.

He had to go through the list three times just to remember it all, trying to find what he forgot, and he was slightly upset. Not exactly upset, but his slow mind couldn't find stronger word at the moment. It took all his strength just to not drift away and to not let that sticky mud that was covering his brain stop him from thinking. He clung to the few important thoughts he remembered from their visit, although not entirely sure what they meant; wait for lunch, definitely black, and the pen is mightier than the sword. He had no idea what to do with that, but he knew his brain would take care of it, just as it gave him George when he wasn't able to understand why, and the phone, in the warehouse.

Only thing he knew what to do with, because he made himself stare at it without blinking, was the TV. And he had to do it as soon as possible, before this struggle with the drugs became too hard. Two phase check, he reminded himself. He hoped he would be able to do it without forgetting why.

He slowly put the phone on the cupboard, almost missing it, and hid in the pillow that little funny thingy Nate forgot to take away from him. He wasn't worried because he had no idea what to do with it. The Hitter knew, he took it, and he was pleased with it.

Getting up from the bed, this time, was a demanding task. He knew how to do it, but he couldn't wrap his mind around all the movements that needed to be done, especially not in the right order, and it was driving him mad. Mad, yes, that was the word he was looking for, not upset.

He was _very_ mad.

After staring helplessly at the railings, as he tried to remember what he had done with his hands to lower them the last time, he just stopped thinking and simply did it. He needed to be on his feet, so he closed his eyes to diminish all of the blurring distractions, and moved, letting the Hitter to do his job. He got him up, but he let him standing there, clueless.

_TV. Two phase check_. Eliot stood there, ignoring the way the room was tilting around him, and waited. He tried to count seconds and minutes, but it was mission impossible, nine was the furthest he could get before losing the count, and starting all over. He was starting the fifth time from the beginning, when the doors opened and Betsy came in… several Betsys, mixed in one giant heap of many arms and heads. _Jesus_. No, she wasn't alone, a few of her heads were blonde. Two nurses.

"What are you trying to do?" her voice was calm, but strangely distant. He remembered he had to act as if his getting up this time was not leaving, or a threat, or anything suspicious, so he just looked at her, absolutely lost. Finally, something that was easy to achieve.

"TV," he nodded to the wall, and regretted moving his head, because their arms, multiplied in a second, were like octopuses tentacles, everywhere. Cool, the insect phase was obviously over, it was time to move to the ocean fauna. He chuckled, and let them return him to the bed.

"Next time, call the nurse, do not try to take it from the wall," Betsy smiled and put the remote in his hand. "You should sleep, by the way. Do you need anything else? "

"A car and the gun," he chuckled again. Oops, not that. "No, forget it, it's too early for that, it'll come later." _Stop, you idiot_. He concentrated on the list of important things he had to remember, and figured out what he had to say. "I'm hungry."

"I'll bring you lunch later, when you sleep a little, and when you will be able to eat. Okay?"

They left after that, and he was left alone to sort out what he had done. The camera was watched. They saw him standing, they called Betsy immediately, she went in to put him in the bed. Okay, that was very logical, he should be very proud of himself. The only thing he had to do next was figure out why he had done it.

He stared at the TV and then at the remote, thinking. About octopuses. _Nate, I should kill you for this_. It took all his strength to stop himself from waving at the camera, for God's sake.

Waving. Yes, that was it. Patrick waved at the TV, he noticed his hand stopping, and Patrick changed his mind about turning on the TV, 'cause it was messing with the camera.

Okay, Phase Two. He clicked the remote and watched someone dancing on a beach for a few minutes. Betsy didn't came in to tell him to turn it off, so they probably didn't want to take the TV away from him. How nice and sweet. _How stupid and reckless_. They should have known how to fight, when engaging in a battle, morons. 'When you're in war, act like…' - nope, that was Rome. Nobody clever acted in Rome like in a war... or was it the other way around? He watched the dancing, trying to remember how Rome fit into his phases about the TV, and why should warriors act like Romans when fighting, until he felt like he would end up in an endless loop if he didn't get away from it immediately. It was easier to think than to do it, particularly after he realized he liked Florence much more than Rome, and that in Florence, in Acqua al Due, they served the best octopus salad he had ever…God, no, no octopuses again. His mind went full circle back to the beginning.

He forced himself to think about Betsy again, and about her possible return, and that helped him to remember where he was, and what he had to do next.

He got up for the second time, this time easier, and stood by the bed. The dancing on the beach turned into another song, on some stage, with flashes of light and quick movement of the camera that made his nausea much worse. He was blinking until it passed, and after that he went through an entire set of commercials. When the images turned into a studio with a live guests, he realized he'd been standing more than fifteen minutes.

And nobody came in to put him back to bed.

Good. He was right. They couldn't see him when the TV was on. He erased yet another evil grin, and returned to the bed. Mad, yes, that was the right word. They would learn not to mess with him when he was mad, whether in Rome, or not.

He turned the TV off, fought with octopuses for a few seconds, and then managed to think further. Definitely deep purple, he thought. And cranberry slushie, eventually mixed with blueberries, that would make useful combination on exactly three levels.

They couldn't know how easy it was to escape from here, they were forgetting who he was; he had done it successfully in real prisons, with real guards, many times. They thought the hospital was the obstacle, and this room, and the bed. _Amateurs_. Concentrating on that, they forgot he fought only one prison, his weakness.

They also couldn't know, by any means, that he had already opened almost all the locks on _that_ prison, and that he needed just one more important thing before he started dealing with hospital obstacles… a long sleep. He hadn't slept since he regained consciousness, and tonight would be very busy.

Maybe he should be grateful to Nate for arranging that just in time, he thought while closing his eyes.

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Sophie and Parker went to the hospital to continue the usual checks, Hardison seemed completely occupied with his typing and checking Eliot's phone, and Nate had enough time to go through Eliot's papers that Bonnano had brought him. He wasn't expecting to find thorough plans and descriptions of his actions, and he knew he would be challenged, but this mess was totally beyond his ability to understand it.

"Whatever you're doing, leave it," he said to Hardison. "I need your help here."

The hacker sighed and came to the small table to look at the papers. Watching his eyes widen, Nate knew they were in trouble.

"Yes, this is Arabic. You don't have some sort of program that will take this and turn it into… something else?"

"Yep, sure I have. Not only does it translates this, it also does a character study with tomorrow's horoscope," Hardison replied bitterly. "Actually, why do it? It's not necessary any more, he is drugged and out. We can relax."

Nate leaned back and tilted his head, watching the younger man who was still going through the papers.

"So, why aren't you relaxed?" he asked him.

"Maybe because we are still surrounded with killers, Nate? Maybe because-" he bit his lip and broke off. He pulled a silver phone from his pocket. "Maybe because the only number in this phone, one that was called last night, is Villacorta's number?"

"And you think Eliot worked with Villacorta like he worked with Moreau?"

"Of course not, I'm not stupid. It's just… I was saying to myself all this time he can't do anything, at least not so soon, and I was lulled a little…and this morning, everything is speeding up, falling apart; he's standing, he's half crazy, he called Villacorta, and, and… the possibility of him really going out, and doing…" he hesitated, searching for the word, and Nate patiently waited. "… well, that possibility is now real. So real, that it even isn't just a possibility anymore, you know what I mean?"

"What part of the-"

"Don't. Say. That. I remember everything you told us about him and the trouble we can have with stopping him, and okay, I admit you might be right. That's not the problem. The problem is, I don't know what to think anymore!"

"About what?" Nate asked softly. He spent almost fifteen seconds watching the struggle, while Hardison tried to articulate what was bothering him.

"Everything," he finally sighed. "This is not like our ordinary jobs. Danger and violence is usually only something that _happens_, occasionally, it's not the rule… this job, if we can call it a job at all, is… it's only that! Danger and violence, and killing… they want us dead, only that, nothing more or less, just simply… dead. I, I… I went out with a gun to get Sophie! With a gun, on the street! It's… violence. I don't do violence."

"Yes, it is. Just violence and killing." Nate confirmed, and continued to wait.

"What if we give them San Gui back? Somehow get him out of prison, and deliver him with flowers and a bottle of good wine?"

"One variant of that scenario was Plan T."

"Was?"

"Wouldn't work. I dismissed it as soon as I thought of San Gui's eventual role in everything. He has none, his story is over."

"And what now?"

"Nothing much. I've told you already, 'one crisis at the time'. One crisis is solved, for now," Nate waved his head to the monitors. "Or at least put on hold. Now I can think about Villacorta."

"Good." The hacker relaxed a little.

"No, it's not good." Nate shook his head. "Because we have to ask ourselves one question… what if Eliot was right? About everything. What if we go to the Chileans, and then realize we can't go through their web like he said? You haven't asked yourself if his way is the only way to live through this?"

"No, I haven't." Hardison cautiously sat on the edge of a chair. "I don't think we should take into consideration anything he said, or do any more… Bonnano said he is delusional and dangerous… you saw what he… _did_. What he almost did. He scared the shit out of me, and just thinking about what would happen if he goes out… You know I love him, but maybe just because of that, I can see there's something very, very wrong with that man… not wrong like we say to Parker, but simply… wrong. Dark wrong. Jesus, he is like a Sith Lord under the Jedi cape!"

"And you didn't know that 'til now?"

"Well, he wasn't talking, 'til now, about things worse than murdering, especially not with those crazy…everything. Eyes, voice, hell, Nate, he was smiling! That scared even Bonnano, and we can say that man has seen his deal of gruesome and bloody things."

"So, you're trying to say that Eliot all of a sudden changed into athing that scares you?"

"No, I can't say he changed…" Hardison hesitated.

"Okay, then he _didn't_ change, he is the same as three days ago, before the warehouse and the hospital? "

"No, not that either," Hardison replied wearily. "Nate, don't-"

"He didn't change, and he didn't remain the same, cool. He just took off the Jedi cape and revealed the Sith Lord?" Nate's voice was harder, and he pinned the hacker with his eyes. "Hardison, he didn't change… the only thing that changed is your perception."

"What? Now _I'm_ the problem? I have changed? I didn't ch-"

"And your perception is your problem, not his. You have to solve it. Have you called him?"

"No, I was busy, couldn't-" Hardison sighed. "No, I didn't want to call him, because I wasn't certain I'd be able to talk as if I didn't see him snarl at Bonnano, and as if I didn't hear him talk about murdering the way he did." He sighed again. "Nate… I just don't want him to go out and kill somebody!"

"Nobody wants it. Do you think _he_ wants to do it?"

"That's one more thing I'm not sure about any more," Hardison's worried eyes swiveled across the room.

"And that brings us back to what I have told Sophie: it's okay to have him around knowing he is a killer, as long he doesn't kill anybody in front of us, right?"

He had to admit to Hardison one thing; he didn't dismiss it at once, he had pondered on it. Yet, the hacker didn't need Nate to make it all easier and more understandable, he had to do it himself. And the bigger the mess he was in, the more accurate the results would be.

"You're not completely wrong, you know?" Nate continued with a slight smile just at the moment Hardison looked as if he was about to come to some conclusions.

"Beg your pardon?", hacker asked.

"He _is_ dangerous and delusional, and he has become an unreliable part of the team. I have to think about the pros and cons of him living through this. We can't allow ourselves to depend on someone who can't be trusted anymore."

Hardison stared at him with bewildered eyes. _Good_.

"What? I'm a _team_ leader, Hardison, not a baby sitter." He continued, trying to smile coldly.

Hardison made a choked sound, not trying to speak, and Nate could see him thinking, could almost feel his mind jumping all over in the directions he put inside his head. He couldn't go in opposite directions at the same time, he had to choose one and follow it, and no wonder he just stayed in one place, not daring to go anywhere.

"The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one." Nate continued solemnly. "It's logical, isn't it?"

"You're quoting Star Trek," Hardison caught the only safe and familiar thing he could find and Nate let him cling to that lifebelt. For now.

"Forget I told you anything. It's not the time for solving that problem, that crisis, we have more important things to do right now, okay? Would you please try to figure out how to solve these papers? I have to know what he planned to do. He is not completely neutralized."

"Yes he is."

"Yeah, sure. Eliot would say: look, I'm drugged again, they took my toys, and I'll just stop doing everything I've almost killed myself for, and admit I'm beaten? And stay down?"

"Well, when you put it that way…" the hacker shifted uncomfortably and glanced at the monitors. "Okay, I'll call forth the Horde. It's too big just for me alone, I'll need a lot of help. And it will take a while."

It was Nate's turn to glance at the monitors again. The small one was turned on all the time. "Hurry up." he said quietly. _Please hurry up_.

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Eliot had no idea how long he had slept. A couple of hours, maybe more. The sunlight was bright and still coming in at an angle that told him it was late afternoon, and he didn't have to open his eyes to check the phone.

He wasn't on the triple dose of morphine any more, just the double, and even that was slowly wearing off; thinking wasn't so hard, he could follow his thoughts much longer before losing focus and drifting away. Sleeping helped it, too. He could remember all of the important things from the last conversation, and more importantly, he could remember _why_ they were important.

This double dose would be the one that he would be on when he got out, so he slowly moved his shoulders and inhaled deeply, assessing the pain. 5/10. Not good, but that would do for walking and opening the doors. Nothing more than that, he had to be careful. With a little clenching of his teeth, and careful avoiding of any sudden movements of his arms, he'd live long enough to put some distance between himself and hospital.

Dizziness, nausea and triple vision were maybe bigger problems than the pain, but as long as he managed to focus from time to time, that wouldn't stop him. Slow him down, yes, but stopping was out of question.

Soft, quiet footsteps, the sound that woke him up in the first place, were Betsy's, but he carefully opened one eye to check if by any chance it was the red headed nurse instead of her. He was already pretty worried about her not showing up at all. An opportunity like that didn't come up often, and missing it simply was not an option.

Yep, it was Betsy. She was watering the plants, her back were turned to him, so he quickly checked the room to see if there was something new, trying to focus his eyes and avoid everything swaying. He remembered to tell her later to take care of George, change his soil and put him in a clean vase. So much morphine around his roots couldn't be healthy for any plant.

"The beeping of your pulse changes slightly when you're awake, you know?" Betsy didn't bother to turn around. "If you want to pretend you're still sleeping, be my guest, though."

He sighed. "How am I supposed to do anything, when I'm attached to a real time lie detector?"

"You really want an answer to that?"

"Nope." He thought about sulking, but he couldn't quite perform turning his back to her, and covering his head with a pillow, so he just sighed and slowly sat up. She noticed his tone of voice, obviously, because when she finally turned to him, she had a half-evil smile.

"There, there, you already look much better." She cooed coming closer, and he had to close his eyes because the sudden movement stirred everything in the room. "And don't worry, nausea is normal for this dose."

"Yes, I know, thank you," he murmured through clenched teeth. "I'll remember that." He checked the sun again. "Why are you still here? Thought you went home already."

"Soon. Are you ready for a late lunch, a mix of lunch and supper?"

"Nope," he said morosely. "I'm drugged, and feeling sick, remember?"

"I see." She smiled. "You had told me you were hungry before you slept these couple of hours, to make sure I wouldn't forget it when you woke up, right? And now, the poor, tortured prisoner can't eat, because the evil nurse drugged him, making him sick and nauseous, so he just sits here, with a silent accusation, with helpless, innocent eyes, waiting for the evil nurse to suggest she will lower the dose a little, or even _skip_ one dose so he can eat?"

_Dear God_. This woman _was_ a monster. He stared at her like a rabbit at incoming lights on a freeway, but he pulled himself out of it.

"Yes, ma'am, that would be great, thank you." He smiled brilliantly, and she just shook her head, trying not to laugh.

"Okay," she finally said.

"Okay?" he eyed her cautiously, expecting thirty different kinds of traps. "Just like that?"

"You can't do much in that one hour, and all your equipment is surveilled. Any suspicious change will be answered in an appropriate manner. You have to eat, and there's no point in feeding you if you can't keep your food down, so yes, you'll have one hour 'til this dose wears off. After that you eat, and then sleep again, back on the double."

"And how soon is your soon–going-home, by the way?"

"All nurses will do exactly the same, no exceptions. Don't count on messing with my orders, it won't work."

"It's not your orders that scare me, it's your brain."

"Well, the feeling is mutual," she murmured with a disapproving look in her eyes. "I'm not happy with giving you the opportunity to clear your head, not even for a short time, and as soon you eat, you're going down again. Maybe even a triple dose again, to make sure you won't wake up for hours."

"And I was hoping to invite Eric to play poker tonight. Poor guy must be bored to death."

"Eric is going home before evening, Frank is here tonight. You won't-" she stopped and frowned. "Nice. Now you know which one is here. I'll warn him not to enter the room, no matter what. And you're forbidden to talk to anyone except me, you understand?"

He rolled his eyes, and regretted it immediately. Deeply.

"I'll watch TV," he murmured.

"One hour," she repeated, leaving the room. "Behave yourself."

He sighed when she went out, turned on TV, and waited.

After exactly three minutes she opened the door again and peeked inside, checking what he was doing, and he looked at her, surprised. "What?"

She just glared at him, and closed the door again.

Thank God that woman wasn't criminal. Or even worse, a law officer of any kind. He couldn't do anything until she went home, and he reminded himself to be extra careful and obedient, and not give her any reasons to stay longer than needed.

He took the black phone and went online, searching for the numbers he'd need, and he transferred all of the numbers from the last search with five different targets onto the cheap phone. The TV was on, so he could be sure the idiots across the street couldn't see him, but he glanced at their window, just in case. A telescope of some kind wouldn't be a surprising thing to see, Hardison would be the first to- No. He couldn't allow himself to think about them, to wonder who was alive and who might not be, it would mess with his already lousy concentration and slow him down. The only way to help them was to get out of here, and draw the fire away from them.

He chose one number and dialed it, waiting through the ringing.

"Massachusetts General Hospital, how can I help you?"

"Hi, Rosalie, it's Matt. I need you to check-"

"It's not Rosalie," the female voice was stern and obviously not willing to talk. "Rosalie won't be in for another half an hour. Matt who? Do you want to leave a message?"

"Well, I see my mistake now," he drawled and smiled. "_That_ voice couldn't be Rosalie. And I'm also sure we haven't yet met, 'cause I would surely remember it."

"Thank you… Matt." Yep, that was definitely a little slowing in her pace. "Message?"

"No messages, I'm here in SICU and I'm busy… let me guess something. That soft, warm voice… you must work in pediatrics, right? Am I right?"

"Close. I worked there until last month."

"Sally? No, you're not Sally, her voice is squeaky."

"Maybe we know the same Sally." She now smiled, and he was acknowledged as a part of the community; she wouldn't check him. "I'm Janice."

"I'll remember that, I swear. And I have one favor to ask… have you seen Doctor Sciortino leaving, perhaps?"

"He left one hour ago."

"Thank god. He didn't leave any notes with you? Please, tell me he didn't!"

"You're his intern, aren't you?" her sigh had a very experienced note in it. Nurses were always covering shit that interns did on a daily basis. It was useful to date a lot of them, and listen them when they talked about their work. "What have you done?"

"You mean what I didn't do? He told me this morning to leave a message at your desk, but we were on visits, and it slipped my mind, and-"

"Okay, boy, spit it out, I don't have all day," there was a growl, but also annoyed warmth. Good.

"He wants you to allow a birthday delivery for the patient in 304. It will be a slightly larger package than permitted, balloons and stuff like that, and it will come at some time tonight. Patient is terminal, the doctor thinks it's important to allow it. Can you tell Rosalie when she comes, and make sure she knows Sciortino ordered it? I won't be here when she comes."

"Okay, it'll be done. You owe me a chocolate."

"First thing in the morning," he smiled, and ended the call.

He put the phone on the cupboard, and turned the TV off, not wanting Nate to call Betsy to check on him again, suspicious of what he might be doing.

Step by step. He needed Betsy to leave, and he needed just two more phone calls, and that, _dear idiots_, is what makes it so complicated to escape from a hospital.

The only thing he had to decide was should he choose black or dark gray, and should he wait for his car and his gun. The latter was something he had no influence on, so he kept it as open as possible. It was good if it happened, not bad if he had to go without it.

Only one thing was certain… if the car and the gun came to him, it would be at the beginning of the night, the night that would bring another attack, which he had to avoid at any cost… and it would be extremely interesting.

He closed his eyes, waiting for his mind to clear even more, preparing himself for calling one of the five targets he had picked in the neighborhood.

He was trying not to think about the blood that had filled the first chamber in the Pleurevac, and almost half of the second. All of that from early this morning.

It didn't matter, it really didn't. Every crazy, impossible thing that he did in his life, was made in only two easy steps. The first, get started. The second, don't quit.

He was certainly not going to change the winning tactic _now_.


	20. Chapter 20

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"…yes, perfect, sweetheart, that will be it. I'll call you again later to tell you the final details about the delivery. I'm sorry it has to be so precise, but you know hospital policies – sometimes it's hard to skip through their regulations."

"No problems, Mr. Crane, we're glad to help. Just one more question… you said green balloons in the square boxes, and the red balloons in round ones, right?"

"Right. I have another call, I must hang up now – call you later."

Eliot put the phone away, and then turned off the TV, so the camera could see him just laying down and resting, and doing nothing.

He spent two precious minutes breathing and silently cursing. As the nausea and dizziness were decreasing, the pain rose, and not for the first time he cursed his ability to catch a bullet with the only part of his body that required constant moving, even when he was completely immobile. He could feel the stitches stretching with every breath, no matter how shallow he tried to breathe. Luckily, he wasn't even close to the lowest dose of morphine, or without it entirely, like this morning.

Talking was messing with his breathing, ruining the slow rhythm which he could control, and he had to pause between the two conversations to be able to continue. He did not enough time for a long rest, though, he had to call Rosalie and establish the base for his later demand.

He rested one more minute, turned on TV, knowing he was pissing them off by constantly turning it on and off, and then called the lobby.

"Hi, Janice, this is Matt again."

"Janice left for home, it's Rosalie. How can I help you?"

"I promised Janice chocolate, but I forgot to ask her her favorite. So, it's even better she's not there anymore, you can tell me without her knowing."

"Ah, _that_ Matt," Rosalie smiled. "She said you're nice."

"Great, now I'll have to ask her _your_ favorite chocolate."

He patiently waited until the giggle stopped. "Any chocolate with strawberry flavor in it will do."

"Thank you, sweetheart. Did she tell you about Doctor Sciortino's note of delivery?"

"Yes, here it is, it will be allowed."

"It's almost evening and you're not so busy right now, you can talk, right? I was wondering, are you the same Rosalie that worked in the SICU last night where that mess with the attacks and police happened?"

"Yes, that would be me."

"Gee, you're famous. I've heard thirty different versions of the story 'til now. Is it true they were Arab terrorists and they had a bomb?"

That was enough for an avalanche, so he could lean back and rest, breathing shallowly again, just occasionally jumping in with questions. She had to stop while she was explaining what forensics had been done, she was called and had to hang up, but before then he had a pretty clear picture of the events, though she was locked in during the most important part. At least Nate and Parker were there, right in the middle of it, _in front of his fucking door_. And those three Chileans from the warehouse. With silencers on their guns.

Now he could connect the dots and explain the things that had been confusing him for some time, and he almost smiled when he realized he was the only one who knew what was going on the last night, no matter that he had no idea about it until a few minutes ago.

The night was coming. It was good David was there last night, and Frank had his shift 'cause David would be more careful.

He turned the TV off. He wondered what would happen if he continued to play with the TV, and if the monitors produced any sound when going into the white noise. They would freak if he played the five tones from 'Close Encounters of the Third Kind' on their screens with the remote.

His phone rang just when he was willing to give it a try.

He stared at Hardison's ID on the screen, trying to focus, even thinking about not accepting the call. All he needed was a proof of life, and he was willing to accept this as one? Why did he call, when he knew Eliot was supposed to be half sleeping or at least drugged and unable to talk, or do anything except stare at the TV? Maybe he saw him speaking with Betsy? Maybe Betsy told him she would lower the dose temporary so he could eat? _Maybe something happened_.

He sighed and answered the call. "Yeah, Hardison." And maybe they were checking if he was drugged and how much, suspicious because of the clicking the remote, and he had just walked in the trap like a naïve fool, and this mistake would result in a triple dose again. _And_ chains.

"You're not busy or something, can you talk?" Hardison sounded serious, but more than his voice, a chirping bird that he heard somewhere near him, told him this was not an official Leverage & Idiots call. He went out to avoid the others.

"Just as long as you do the talking part. What's going on?"

"Nah, nothing…I was watching a movie the other night, and I saw something disturbing, so I remembered to ask you about it. Is it true that when you put a bullet in someone's head, the eyes pop out sometimes, or it is just a camera trick?"

He stared into the TV, and then turned it on, just in case. _Took them long enough_. He knew this would happen, but he expected it _after_ tonight, not now. Not so early. He was hoping he wouldn't be near them anymore, and more than that, he hoped he wouldn't be forced to go through _this_. He couldn't explain the red to the blind man. Never could.

"Do I look like Google, Hardison?" he sounded as tired as he felt. "Search camera tricks… you know the procedure."

"I have an expert handy, I don't need Google for this. So?"

"That particular event never occurred in my fructuous career," he growled, unable to restrain himself. "What do you want, Hardison? Spit it out, I don't have time for foreplay!"

"You know, that Middleton shit doesn't hold water anymore, we all suspect you're playing us and doing something on your own, yet we can't do anything about it except wait. I _do_ remember what happened with Moreau, when you said you were thinking of dealing with him without our knowledge, before we got involved. This situation, as similar as it is, is even more dangerous, more imminent… and I want to know, what the hell are you doing?"

"Absolutely nothing," he said slowly, trying to think.

"Don't play stupid, Eliot, not with me! You can't just go and kill Villacorta, for God's sake, it's not the way to do it!"

_And why not?_ "And what would you know about how to deal with this, Hardison? You can't understand this world, you never can, and be grateful for that!"

"I _am_ grateful for that, Eliot." Hardison's voice went softer. "But I don't want you to step over the line. Over the lines _you_ put there for yourself. It's not worth it. Not for us, not for anybody. Come home."

Eliot closed his eyes and slowly exhaled, wishing the nurses had left the oxygen in his reach.

This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't thinking about it as thorough as he should; they were supposed to be dismayed and shocked _after_ tonight, and accept his going away with relief, because of it. It would save them all so much trouble. Especially if he got killed; when they found out what he had done, they wouldn't feel guilty. It would be easier for them, it would let them get away with a clean start, a fresh beginning. Hitters were easy to find. The problem was that they were thinking about it already, and that gave them the time to adjust to the thought he might go kill, _for them_… and he knew guilt, he knew how devastating that feeling was.

That _for them_, was the most dangerous part, which he had to destroy. Or it would ruin them.

It seemed that saving their lives was not enough; saving _the team_ was equally important. They had to stay together, it was the safest for them, and guilt would destroy them in one day.

He wasn't up for that task, he didn't know how to do it.

Hardison stayed silent, waiting, giving him time to think, making his last words sink in deep.

In fact, there _was_ one way to do it. He had tried to chase them away as a team, and he failed miserably. Maybe, if he repeated it to them one by one, it would work this time.

The fact that Hardison brought up that topic showed him the damage was already done, even before he actually did anything, so he could just continue with it. And make sure that _this_ time they stayed away for good.

The opening of the door startled him, and he quickly checked the time. Damn lunch.

"I need ten more minutes Betsy," he quietly said, putting the phone on hold. "It's Hardison, and it's important."

"Not acceptab-"

"Betsy!" he slowly calmed his voice, and tried to relax his face in some sort of smile. "_Reall_y important."

She must have seen something in his face, because she nodded after a few seconds, and left him.

He had exactly ten minutes to destroy that something '_really_ important'… so that it could be saved.

_Everything worth fighting for, is worth fighting dirty for_.

"I'm here; had to put you on hold for a sec. Continue."

"I was waiting for your reply."

"Repeat the question."

"Don't fuck with me, man, I'm serious."

"Wow, you're serious. A day to remember. But, isn't it a little too late for being serious?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Hardison, that I had plenty of time to think these past few days. And I'm pissed. You know, I'm professional. I have very high criteria for myself, that has kept me alive, and the best in my line of work for years. When I started working with the team, I accepted that I'd have to lower those standards and calculate disturbing factors, in the shape of four unreliable wackos, but I didn't count on how much I'd have to lower them." He paused for a second, but no reply came. "You see, I do not make mistakes, even with the criteria crushed to the lowest levels… it's the other's mistakes I have to deal with. This situation with the Chileans is a perfect example of that, don't you think?"

"Yes, I know," Hardison's reply was quiet. And not quite understandable… but he had no time to think about the meaning of it.

"I tried to imagine my coming to you tomorrow, and starting the Chilean con, and all I could feel was the utter horror. I have no strength to deal with Nate's crazy plans. He doesn't have the sense of danger and risk, he'll refuse all my suggestions about safety, and with an enemy like the Chileans, it's a death sentence for everybody. Sophie would try to grift the killers who'll just laugh and shoot her, Parker would… no, _I_ would strangle her if she blurted out something crazy just once, and you'll again think that everything can be solved with your typing, hacking into accounts and overplaying stupid accents. Can you guess, Hardison, who would do, again, everything dirty and bloody that will have to be done to deal with all your fuck ups?"

He gave him one more chance to speak, but Hardison said nothing.

"So, I came to my senses finally. Why should I deal with all of you, and let you slow me down, increase the danger and possibility of disaster? You're a dead weight, Hardison. I can't work like that anymore."

"So, you _are_ leaving." His voice was empty of everything.

"Yes. I'm not coming back. I'll take care of is Chilean shit, and I'll do it my way… bloody, dirty, and efficiently. I am a killer, kid. I didn't stop killing because I saw The Light; I stopped 'cause I simply decided I don't want to do that anymore."

"Eliot, you're our friend. We-"

"Maybe. But you're not mine. I just tolerated all your annoying shit for the sake of the work, for years, and I can't bear even a thought of one more day of that. And do not, by any chance, think I'm going after Chileans 'cause of you, don't flatter yourself. I'm done with you, I don't care what you'll do, and what will happen to you. My head is on that list to, and Eliot Spencer deals with _his_ problems, and cleans his name. I suggest you warn the others not to cross my path in next few days, for their own good." He smiled, and drawled softly. "And now, Alec Hardison, the hacker of Leverage & Associates, get out of my life, will ya'?"

He ended the call, and just sat there, staring at the blanket. _Continuing__ the breathing process would be extremely necessary_. He couldn't remember if he was breathing at all while he talked.

This _was_ the right thing to do.

He ditched them, insulted them, almost officially resigned, declined all friendship and love, and maybe, maybe, succeeded in throwing them out of his life. If he got killed after that, in some crazy killing spree to clean his name, they would just shrug, and say that was expected.

They would stick together and became even closer, and a new hitter would very quickly become a part of the group. As long as they were the team, they would be okay and protected.

He needed them a lot more than they needed him. They would survive this.

Maybe, if Hardison told them everything, they would even pack themselves up and leave town now. Damn, he should have thought of that earlier, and saved himself so much trouble. If he was conscious enough to make this speech in the warehouse, he wouldn't now have to fight the drugs, chains, and all this triple lying shit that made his brain hurt.

All that was needed, for a change, was to tell Hardison the truth, and that was the most amusing part of this shit… everything he told him was true, except for one important part… it didn't bother him at all, all that what he counted as problems were just accepted minor glitches in the system.

They _were_ a damn dead weight… but they were his. He could carry them forever.

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"What happened?"

He was deep in thinking about hurrying all this up, because he couldn't be sure about their reactions when Hardison brought them the news; all the little wheels in his head were turning, at first every one at its own speed, then slowly becoming synchronized.

He didn't hear Betsy coming in again, not even when she put a tray on the cupboard. He didn't mind it; if it wasn't Betsy, he would hear it. He didn't have to worry anymore about his reactions and his instincts, all that he needed was inside, deep, deep down, and it was working. _Get started, don't quit. Simple as that_.

"Just…an argument." He manage to produce a little, wry smile.

"Your team is causing you trouble?"

He didn't look at her, trying to remember what exactly she knew about everything, and then decided it wasn't important. "Always did." He felt her eyes on him, expecting him to continue, so he did. "It's a part of their charm." It seemed people got used to his talking that much, and they expected him to continue. But he didn't have anything to say, not any more.

"I'm leaving for home after you eat," Betsy said, putting the tray in front of him, and he knew she said it to see his reaction. He just stared at the food, after a futile try to show something, anything, to please her.

Yeah, he knew it wasn't clever to show her that something was wrong, yet he was completely, utterly empty, he couldn't even pretend that he cared about it. _Jesus, all that he said_… Hardison didn't deserve it.

"You look like you lost that argument."

"No, I…I won," he said quietly, still looking at the carefully arranged pile of overcooked broccoli. _And lost them_. Did she know he could find exactly five ways to kill her with that broccoli? _And won their lives._ Did she know he spent exactly six months to tame Hardison, step after careful step, into reluctantly admitting that broccoli can be edible? _And lost them_. Did she know-

"I'll sit here while you eat." For the first time since he arrived, he sensed unease in her voice. "I think the triple dose would be clever."

"No, Betsy," he said, softly. The playing part was over. He looked at the window, and the creeping shadows of the sunset. "I can't allow you to knock me out, not when the night is so close. They'll attack again tonight. I have to be awake."

"_You_ can't allow?"

He sighed and put away the food, forgetting he mustn't make any sudden moves, and tried to stop from swearing and throwing the tray across the room when the pain sliced through him.

Yet, _that _pain he could understand, and beat. _Lost them, and won their lives… he knew what was more important._

He finished the move slowly, with total control, and carefully returned his hands in front of him. Then he looked at her, straight, for the first time since she entered. "Exactly. I can't allow that," he said quietly. Without smiles, without charming. "I have to stay awake. If I'm slow, I'm dead."

Deep black eyes narrowed just a little while she was thinking. "Who told you that would be a_ second_ attack?"

"You don't know who I am, Betsy. You don't know what I do, and how I do things." He glanced across the room. "All of that… all of this Daniel Crane… it isn't me. I can't play anymore, you don't deserve it."

"Give me some credit. I know exactly what part was you, and what part was that Crane person." She smirked. "And now, stop avoiding the only important thing here. You want me, just like that, to take you off the morphine, almost the only thing besides that tube that keeps you here?"

"No. A triple dose is too much, I can't think and I can't move. I can function on the double dose, enough to react if I have to." The double dose would put the pain on a manageable level and it was a crucial part for his first attempt at walking, until he got the hang of it again, and it would be a good base dose for his calculations. He had enough morphine for everything he planned, but just barely. "All I ask is not to put me to sleep. Is that too much?"

"No, it isn't. I threatened you with the triple just to see your reaction. To see if any reaction would come. There's no need to keep you out for that long, though Patrick thinks it would be the best." She paused and then added, "You know you can't get out, not when Frank has orders to knock you down as soon as you open that door? You can't pass him, Eliot."

_She was adorable_.

He could tell her something, anything. He could just nod, or smile, now when talking became so difficult. But he didn't. He just looked at her, thinking about how hard it was to come up with that short single lie, and how easy his entire speech that he fed Hardison with went, and for a long, long moment, he was completely lost in everything, not knowing who was coning who and why. Especially not why.

She didn't smile, didn't raise her eyebrows, she did nothing.

She just elegantly crossed her legs, in a smooth, slow move that reminded him of Sophie in the moment before she struck her final blow at the mark.

Betsy _knew_ he wouldn't be there tomorrow morning when she returned. He could see that in her eyes, that realization, he didn't even have to read her silence.

Yep, he should have nodded, or said a simple yes. But it was too late for that now, and he was tired of everything. _Broken and dull, a great combination for cutting the webs_.

He let her think. He wasn't worried. Everything she could come up with he would just simply solve and continue. There was no way she could stop him now, and even those restraints were just one more obstacle to deal with, nothing more.

"So, end of the game?" she quietly asked.

"You can't win."

"If you win, you'll die."

Silence stretched between them, while they contemplated their next moves on an invisible board. He had the advantage, though... he knew her every possible move, and prepared to ready his counterattacks, while she knew nothing about the things he could do. She couldn't surprise him with anything.

"You solved all your problems?" she glanced at his chest tube, "Shall we talk about the consequences of your lungs filling with blood, the same speech you almost fainted at, the last time?"

"I. Did. Not."

"Yep, fainted like a girl. I guess avoiding the answer is an answer itself." She slowly got up, and stretched her skirt. "It was a long day. Eat that, and get some rest."

"Betsy-"

"I'll warn Frank and tell him to be ready during the night. And I'll tell him to call me if he succeeded in stopping you, so I can enjoy and prepare my 'I told you so' speech." She hesitated before she went on. "I'm not sure, to be honest, what to do if he doesn't call me with good news."

"He won't call you." he simply said. "This is not-"

"What would you do, Eliot Spencer," she ran over his words, showing him a syringe. "If this is the triple, and not the double dose?"

"Smile?"

She darted him a skeptical look. "You've already solved that, haven't you?"

He just nodded.

"Restraints? You can deal with those too?"

He nodded again.

"How?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow." He watched as her anger rose; it was a pretty frightening sight, he never saw her really pissed before, and suddenly he wasn't so sure if he should be so self confident in this matter. He reminded himself that she couldn't stop him. Then he did it again, once more, as her silent rage boiled visibly.

"You know, keeping you alive is a very lousy job. Especially when you're not helping any." She stormed out after that, and slammed the door shut.

Great. There went another one. Hurt, angry, betrayed. He was hoping he would get a chance to say goodbye to her without her knowing he was doing that. And thank her. It was important to him, that there was least one person he wouldn't chase away. _Congratulations, well done_.

He checked the time; he had spoken with Hardison only fifteen minutes ago, and he couldn't tell what reaction it would cause. They were completely unpredictable in many things, even for him. He had to count on Nate to calm everything down and stop them from doing whatever they thought was the clever thing to do, and to remind them that nothing had changed, that Eliot is still disabled, drugged and guarded, and under their total control. Nate wouldn't risk any premature move. However, he doubted that Nate would be fooled with his little speech for long, he would soon figure out all his motives, but Eliot hoped he would have enough sense to keep it to himself.

The only thing that worried him was that Nate would know _why_ he had done that to Hardison. His motives and his thoughts would be revealed to him completely, and that was not a comfortable feeling. However, if he could choose, he would choose Nate to be the one who would know everything. Their silent understanding never needed explanations and lots of words, and he could count on him to understand. Even now, when they were separated, and had to guess each other's moves. The funny thing was, both of them were doing the same thing, divided by only one street and a couple of walls. He was trying to save Nate's life, and the others. Nate was trying to save his. Both of them were doing it by stopping the other's actions. And both thought they were right.

Maybe the both of them _were_ right, it that was possible. If he was in Nate's position, and had to decide to stop one of them who was going to do something slightly… okay, _completely_ crazy, he would do the same. He would probably choose much less subtle pressure, but the one who had to be stopped, would be stopped indeed.

If the stakes weren't this high, the duel could have been way more interesting – he had to admit to himself that playing with Nate was inspiring. It was still dangerous, now more than ever; when Nate figured out everything behind his speech to Hardison, he would know _too much._

He had to hurry. He forced himself to eat, knowing he would need every bit of strength, and then waited for the next nurse who would come to give him the double dose. With Betsy gone, he could start everything and get the hell out of here finally. A double dose every half an hour, that was the time frame in which he had to organize everything, between nurses' visits. Frank wouldn't expect anything that early in the evening, night was the time for dramatic escapes.

But, the nurse that came in was Betsy again. Changed into an elegant, dark dress, and still fuming. She sat on his bed.

"Do you want to check if it's the double dose?" she said while connecting the syringe to his catheter.

"Nope." He eyed her cautiously, and dared not to say anything else. Her lips were in one tight line.

"You're not the suicidal type," she continued. "I've seen my deal of those, I can recognize them at a mile. If you were, if I, only for a second, thought you might be, we wouldn't be having this conversation now."

"And what conversation we _are_ having right now?" he asked carefully.

"There is a chance, though not very possible, that you know what you are doing-" He opened his mouth to say something, but the dreaded pointed finger stopped him. "Yet," she continued coldly, "you evaded my question about solving the problem with the chest tube. The problem I know you're aware of and its significance. As I said, you're not suicidal, you're just an idiot. You _are_ leaving, no matter what?"

He nodded.

"Well, good luck then." She disconnected the syringe and stood up, turning to leave. Before he could think of anything to say to her, she turned around. "Don't worry, you'll manage to deal with that problem, you're a clever idiot. After all, you dealt with me, didn't you? When you came here, you faced a Chief nurse, your main enemy. You didn't try to get rid of her, or chase her away… you made her _work for you_. Literally. I suggest you continue with that tactic. It works. On many levels."

And with that, she left, closing the door silently behind her.

He stared at the door. Did she just tell him… yep, she definitely _did_.

_Damn_.

He even managed to smile.


	21. Chapter 21

First of all, thanks to Trappercreekd, my Beta :D

Second - answers to people who sent messages:

- answer to the readers who want this to be longer, with more hospital chapters - not gonna happen, the next chapters are already written.

- answer to the readers who want this to be faster - see above :D

Sorry, people, this shit is too complicted already, and if i change anything, it will affect too much things in future chapters, and it will become one nasty mess of a fic. I do, however, enjoy talking to you, and your observations are more than useful - and I thank you for that.

I could go back and change Betsy to be young and pretty, but it would certainly ruin their dynamics - though I admit that I had no idea she'll grow into this... if I had, maybe I would reconsider that. Or not. I like her the way she is :D And, it's useful for Eliot to have somebody that's not a love interest. It gets boring when repeated.

Thank you all, people, you're really inspiring :D

Chapter 21.

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.

.

Nate was watching the security cameras while Hardison was out preparing Lucille for the night. Sophie and Parker were monitoring three very drunk, heavy built men who had been admitted into the ER in fifteen minutes intervals, all of them accompanied by a few friends who were now scattered all around while waiting to their friends to be examined.

The evening was getting darker, but it was way too early for drunken people to occupy the ER.

Hardison had programmed the cameras to send quality pictures to automatic facial recognition software, and all of the time, on two screens, the search results were displaying. They had about two hits per hour, and a loud ping would warn them if they had a match, but they caught nothing important or relevant to them.

He moved away from the workstation when Hardison returned, and the hacker sat at his place without a word. His shoulders were uncharacteristically slumped.

"Problems?" he asked.

"Nope." The short reply was not convincing, but Nate didn't press. Hardison had a lot of things to go through, and it would be the best to leave him alone to find some answers for himself.

He went into the small room to change, trying to find a dark shirt for the night, before he joined Sophie and Parker. They were facing another sleepless night, and at some point he would have to organize another round of a few sleeping hours for everybody.

When he returned, Hardison was still in the same position, elbows on the table, staring at the small squares of security feed. Yet, something was different. One of the squares was completely dark.

"Hardison?"

"Yeah?"

"You have one dead camera right in front of your nose."

The hacker slowly straightened up. "I've seen it. I can't do anything, it's not a software problem, it's broken. Hospital security is monitoring it like I do, they'll send someone to fix it."

"It's a probe," Parker said from the door. "They're coming."

"What?"

"This time they won't risk coming close to the cameras, they know security will react if they see anything similar to last night. This was a sniper. All the cameras are outside, monitoring the entrances, and they are visible from any high spot. A good shooter could hit it from hundreds of meters without a problem. They took out the first one, to see how long it will take for security to notice and fix it. They'll make their plan according to their response time. When they start, snipers will kill all the cameras, leaving us and security completely blind."

They both stared at her, and Nate had to ask himself _who_, precisely, was saying that.

"What?" she asked confused. "It's obvious. Normal people do it all the time – you throw bait to the guards to see how quickly they respond."

"Sure, all normal people do it on regular basis. Why are you here, by the way?"

"Hungry." She walked in, grabbed two slices of pizza from the boxes on the small table, smiled, and left with a cheerful wave.

Nate sighed and turned to Hardison. "So, should we think about how to deal with sniper fire, or we-"

"Nate!" Parker chirped from the hall. "You've got a visitor!"

They both looked at the bag full of weapons, but the face at the door was familiar. Betsy. She held a piece of pizza in her hand, and she was staring after Parker whose quick steps were heard from the corridor.

"It's a gesture of affection," Nate quickly explained, taking the squashed pizza from her. "What can I do for you?"

"I need to talk to you, alone." she glanced at Hardison who sighed and went to the bathroom. "Call me when you're done," he said closing the door after himself.

Nate showed her to a seat at the big table, and went to find some paper towels. When he returned, he found her looking at the camera with Eliot's room on it. It seemed he was sleeping.

"Do you have any children, Nate Ford?" Her question caught him unprepared, and he flinched, turning to her. She was studying him.

"No." His answer was too quick and sounded forced, and she raised her eyebrows.

"You see, I was not fooled by Eliot's silently accepting his fate; he was manipulating Patrick even while we took all the morphine from him, and drugged him." She continued after a moment's silence. "I've always treated patients like my children. It's the only way to give them the best care. You have to understand them, to know who they are, to give them what they need." She paused, just looking at him. "If you had children, you would know that there's no such thing as stopping them from doing what they're up to. They always find a way. Patrick is forgetting that, though he has a son – he is a cop and he can't look at his _patients_ like his children. That's why he is wrong when he thinks he succeeded in stopping Eliot from leaving. He is in the cop mode, so he counts on the obstacles he put in front of him; if he was in the father mode, he would know it's useless. I don't know what your position is – without that I can't know what you are able to see. And do."

He thought about everything she said, knowing exactly what she was asking him. He just didn't know why. "If I wasn't aware that he is not completely disabled, I wouldn't monitor his every move," he said carefully.

She didn't respond, just looked at him, thinking, and Nate knew she was judging his lack of sincerity. He gave her the paper towels to wipe her hands, and waited. Funny, most of his interactions with other people lately consisted of waiting and watching, and letting them think. He couldn't say if she was pleased with her conclusions, but he couldn't give her anything more.

He certainly didn't expect her smile. "Maybe this speaks for itself." She pointed at something behind him. "So you don't have to." He turned around and looked at the hospital bed in the corner of the room. "But I have to know, exactly, how far you will go for him, before I tell you why I'm here."

How far? Women were supposed to be intuitive, and feel things, damn it, wasn't it obvious how far he'd go, how far he already… he stopped himself and took a slow breath. "All the way down, Betsy," he said seriously. "What is going on?"

"He is leaving tonight."

"Yes, it is possible," he said slowly. "Not exactly possible, because it is _impossible_, but I know him, and I know what he can do when he decides to do something. So I keep every option open. Yet, let's look at the situation objectively, shall we?" Nate showed her the monitor with Eliot laying with his eyes closed. "We keep it on all the time now. Since Bonnano left, all he does is rest, maybe even sleeping. When he is awake, he watches TV – we know that because when the TV is on, the camera is not functioning. You said that with a double dose he can't do anything, he is too weak and has triple vision, and all of the other symptoms you listed. He certainly can't walk in that condition," he said reasonably. "He doesn't have anything that would help him escape, and he is still on blood drainage. Not to mention a guard who will stop him."

"He is leaving _tonight_." She smiled. Calmly.

He observed her quiet certainty. "How?"

"I don't know. I only know that he is playing a complicated game, right now, at this moment, and he is dealing with everything we have done, one problem at a time."

Nate looked at the monitor and sleeping man again.

"The thing that you don't know is…" she hesitated a moment. "He has to be stopped, because he might die without the hospital and blood drainage. He takes it all too lightly, counting that he'll solve it as he goes along, but there's no such thing with such serious injuries – he is not in the SICU because of someone's caprice, he is there because he _needs_ to be there. That's why I agreed with Patrick and approved the tasers; it would be very dangerous for him if they knocked him down, but much less so than leaving the hospital with dangerous internal bleeding. His chest tube is not there to drain the blood remaining from the shooting… it's there to collect the blood that's _still_ leaks."

Nate said nothing. He calmly smiled, controlling the need to go to the hospital and just shoot that stupid son of the bitch, and _then_ chain him to the wall. This… this was even worse than the one thing he had done in the warehouse, the only truly unforgivable thing for which he would pay dearly. He opened his mouth to ask something, but Betsy shook her head; she hadn't finished. He stood silently and clenched his teeth until he felt a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"I don't know what he is planning to do and how long it will take," Betsy continued. "Bleeding to death is the immediate danger. We supplemented it with the transfusions and kept it balanced, but when he leaves the clock will start ticking. It is a slow but steady bleeding, and we are not talking about days, but hours. He'll fall into shock because of the blood loss, and if he's alone, he'll die. The second problem with the lungs filling is breathing in general; he could survive long enough with that one lung collapsed, but the blood could obstruct all of the respiratory pathways and kill him in less than a minute, if it happens."

Nate remembered the helpless fear he felt while they waited for the results of the surgery, to see if he would make it through, and then he compared that feeling to the fear that was now gnawing at him with renewed strength… it took him a moment to realize that not only was it the same feeling, but also that it'd never left, just went duller at moments. "He knows all of that?" he quietly asked.

"At least part of it - though he knows much more than it's clever to know. There is a possibility his decisions are based on solid ground, but I wouldn't count on it. He's extremely stressed, and it's getting worse with every hour that passes. You trust him?"

"His judgment? Yes, I do, especially when it comes to deciding what he can do. He is a professional."

"Well, your professional is now very anxious, and not too reasonable. Keep that in mind. I helped him as much as I could, now it's up to you to take it over."

"We are expecting another Chilean attack when night comes, and we'll all be busy with that. I hope it won't take more than a couple of hours, much before the midnight. We'll try to involve the police as soon as we can. The best time to escape from everywhere is right before dawn, and we'll have enough time to concentrate on that and to stop him."

"He knows there'll be a second attack and he is expecting it too."

"What? How?"

"You tell me, you're his boss."

He rubbed his forehead. "If, somehow, he managed to leave, what he will need when we find him?"

"A hospital. As soon as possible."

"If it's not possible, or safe, or whatever?" If entire the Boston police force were searching for them, for who knows what reasons?

Without a word, she pulled a paper from her bag, a paper with a long list on it. Nate glanced at the medical terms and blinked. "This… I don't think we know…Can you-"

"I've already took a couple of days off… starting tomorrow."

"Great." He sighed. Tomorrow.

"I'll start working on that list and prepare it. Call me when you need me, and don't wait too long."

"Hardison!" Nate called and the hacker emerged from the bathroom. He gave him the paper. "Scan this, just in case."

Betsy looked at a young man. "What did you tell Eliot when you spoke earlier?" she asked him.

"Erm… nothing?" he evaded their eyes, bent over the scanner.

"Well, whatever it was you _didn't_ tell him, it crushed him hard. I was watching him try to gather himself… a very unpleasant experience."

"I have no idea what you are talking about." Hardison gave her the paper with a smile.

"Of course you don't," she smiled back, then got up, turning to Nate again. "Put me on speed dial."

He nodded, catching the message, and watched her leave.

Then he leaned against the table, staring at the monitor. They had to concentrate all their strength on the incoming attack, for now. Thinking about ways to stop Eliot, and at the same time let the Chileans kill him, was just _slightly _the wrong order of things. It was still evening, not entirely dark, and they had time for everything. Yet, he thought about it again, and counting on Eliot to do the wisest thing in this situation, to wait until the night is almost over, might prove to be a mistake. He wouldn't escape at dawn, because it was obvious and the first choice, he'd start much earlier.

The hiding and deceiving part was over, Nate decided as worried anger twisted through his gut; the very first minute when they were sure the attack had been stopped, he was going into Eliot's room.

No. _All_ of them were going into his room.

Hardison sat at the workstation and started typing at a furious speed, which was the always unspoken message that he couldn't be disturbed, but Nate had no time for that.

"So, what were you two talking about?" he asked conversationally.

"Just some unpleasant _private_ things."

"Let me make this perfectly clear, Hardison…" his voice went into that dark and even tone that often made them all flinch. "In a situation like this, on a job like this, there's no such thing as _private_. I have to know everything, even things that you think are not important. _What_ have you talked about?"

"I don't think it's clever…" Hardison hesitated, avoiding his eyes. "I thought it might be the best to just elide that, and not disturb the rest of you, but you're right, at least you should know. Though I think it will be wise to tell nothing to the girls." He pulled out his phone. "I recorded it, thank God, I don't think I would be able to repeat it. So, here it is."

Nate listened to the whole conversation from the beginning, while Hardison tried to occupy himself with checking emails and messages.

…"_And now, Alec Hardison, the hacker of Leverage & Associates, get out of my life, will ya'?"_

After that, there was only the sound of the dead line.

Realizations didn't hit people like a blow to the gut, Nate thought absentmindedly. Nope, they snuck in after all of the scouts they sent before them, and they just stood there, on the verge of sight, waiting patiently to be noticed. Some of them were more patient than others, but as far as he was concerned, all of them were nasty, sadistic bitches.

He hoisted himself to his feet, not paying attention to Hardison's worried stare, and just left the office, silently closing the door behind him. He passed the corridor and reached the stairs, but he didn't continue, he sat on the highest stair and pulled out his earbud.

Maybe, if Betsy wasn't so damn clear about all that blood stuff, he could continue to close his eyes to that stubborn, attacking realization, maybe he wouldn't let himself admit that he knew, for some time, that Eliot wasn't really expecting to survive this shit. Yes, Eliot was the professional. And yes, Nate trusted his judgments. But, he didn't _want_ to trust this one.

It was clear why he got rid of Hardison, and of all of them, why he cut them off for good - or at least he thought he was doing that – to spare them from the outcome, to keep them away from the end of it, and to separate this Eliot from _their_ Eliot.

Because, he wasn't thinking anymore, if he ever did, that he would make it out of this alive. Betsy was not quite right; she thought he knew something about his condition, but not exactly everything – she simply had been deceived. That bastard knew everything, knew all the odds, and decided what to do based on, or in spite of, all of the facts.

So, trust him on this, or not?

Nope, not this time. This time, Nate had to think Eliot was wrong in his assessment, because the alternative was simply not acceptable. They were all going to get through this _alive_.

_Helpless fear_. Nate almost smiled, studying his shaking hands, realizing how deep of an impact those three days had on his thoughts, and how fear perfidiously colored every single action. He was on the verge of going to Eliot and cuffing him to that bed by himself, and at the same time, going into his room and simply saying _Please, don't do this_. The only difference between those two actions would be that the first would only hasten his leaving, while second… well, the second might even be successful.

As soon as the threat of attack diminished, he would do it, he decided. He had to find a way to convince him to wait – not disable him, or stop him entirely, that would be the wrong move, condemned to failure - just make him realize that he _could_ wait a little longer. Even a few hours would make a difference in this race between life and death; the race Nathan Ford intended to win.

They would not lose him.

_He_ was not going to lose him.

He spent the next ten minutes just looking at the dark stairs, enjoying the silence and trying to get himself together. He had to return to Hardison, he knew the hacker was worried and probably half ready to start a search party. They needed the Mastermind, not a scared man who was balancing on the edge of different wrong decisions. The team had to see him as always – calm, busy and competent, that was the only way to keep them functioning. One wrong move and they would fall apart, one wrong step, and they would break, one by one.

He took a deep, long breath, and exhaled, getting rid of everything that Betsy had told him, returning himself to the present situation. Chileans, attack, snipers, papers. Hardison. Who needed him _now_.

It wasn't easy to make his steps quick and light when he entered the office, but he was satisfied with the result. "I tried to catch Betsy and ask her more about Eliot's reaction that she mentioned, but she was already gone," he said, pouring himself more coffee. "Anything new on the cameras?"

Hardison shook his head. Nate waited to see if Hardison would say something, but the hacker just looked at him, obviously not willing to say anything.

Nate sighed and smirked at him. "About that phone call…. You fell for that?" he asked. "Seriously?"

"No," Hardison said. "Yes. Not exactly. Maybe … perhaps a part of it, at the beginning, before I had a chance to think. Then I listened to it again, and noticed he was normal in the first half of it, no signs or indications of the second part. He just in one moment decided to play that, and started." He frowned, worried. "It was… a very convincing speech."

"Yes, because you have been hearing it all these past four years at least once a week. He just collected all the things he was bitching at us for, and served it all together. Have you asked yourself _why_ he did it?"

"To make sure we don't 'come back to Boston', and get involved in his... doings?"

Nate gave him a long look. "Yes, of course, that's it," he finally said.

"And it also confirms Patrick's words about his not coming back, and cutting off everything he left behind, including us. Especially us," the hacker growled. "You know, Nate, I think I have the highest IQ of all of us. Stop treating me like a fool… and stop messing with my head, too. I know what you were doing the last time we spoke, and I know what he was doing, and just because I say nothing, it doesn't mean I'm not aware of it! Why I am such easy target for you two to practice on me, I don't know, but you have to stop it _now_."

"The extremely high level of IQ in this team, Hardison, is the cause of almost all of the fuck ups. I would trade a hundred of our IQs for some simple common sense. One gram per person, it would be enough to survive this shit. But, it is too much to expect, when even the one who was supposed to still have it, goes awry."

"Hell, what he has done _now_?" The anger in Hardison's voice was showing. "What did Betsy tell you?"

Nate listened to that anger. "Just that he is leaving the hospital tonight." No, no one needed to know the rest of it, at least not for now. Especially not Hardison, who was still caught in the disparity between rights and wrongs. He had to decide for himself, without any help from anybody. "As soon as we deal with the attack, I'm going to him, and this will end. Speaking of the attack…"

"Yep, I'm on it. We have one hour before complete dark. While you were speaking with Betsy, Sophie and Parker warned the security about those drunk guys and their friends, they are all being monitored closely by now. They're all decoys, we know that, and this time Villacorta won't do the same thing as last night, but we are aware of that too."

"Okay, make a map of all the cameras that can be destroyed by snipers, and see what exactly they are covering. If they want us blind, we'll find some other way to see through those blind spots. And do it now, so we can send it to security as well. Also, there's-"

"Nope, wait, I have the first reply. I've sent Eliot's papers to my friends-"

"Gnomes?"

"Orcs, Nate, Orcs. Azhar and Marghub sent me the translation of their letters, but they can't help me with the rest – apparently, the numbers are written in Hebrew. Azhar has already sent it to Gilit, she's working on the numbers. We should have a complete translation soon." Hardison handed him the printed papers with the partial results. "While I work on the cameras, you should play with this and see if you can come up something, though I doubt it's possible. There's not a single complete word in here."

"And, while you work on the cameras, don't take your eyes off from him, call me if anything suspicious happened. No, call me if _anything_ happens, suspicious or not."

"Ok, I will… but later. He just turned on that damn TV again. He was sleeping just a second before!"

"No, he wasn't," Nate sighed.

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While the Hitter was busy with assessing the pain and dizziness, the Retrieval Specialist thought about the next steps of leaving the hospital, and the only thing Eliot had to do was keep them both occupied with that, so neither of them thought about any past conversations. Only future conversations were allowed. The team, all of them, had to be completely forgotten, or at least, sorted as one of the obstacles he would have to deal with on his way out.

He couldn't be one hundred percent sure that Betsy didn't change her mind and give the order to shoot him with a triple dose during the entire night, to keep him sleeping, so he pulled the thing Nate forgot to take from him out of the pillow. Bonnano had taken all his papers, but he left the pen on the cupboard. And the pen _was_ mightier than the sword, like Betsy said. _Though, with a sword handy…this night might be way more interesting. _He carefully stood up and went one entire step away from the bed, as far as the heart monitoring clamps on his fingers let him, being the shortest of all the damn wires he was trapped by. He barely had enough room to reach his chart on the lower part of the bed.

That Google thing was useful, he had to admit. He almost thought he would tell that to Hardison one day, when he was feeling extremely generous, but then he remembered it wouldn't be possible. Not any more.

All he had to type in was "morphine antidote", and there it was: Naloxone, given to patients that suffered from an overdose. He spent a few minutes quickly scanning the entire chart, to see the pattern, then wrote down a new addition to the therapy, a mild dose. Even if they came with Betsy's new orders, the next shift would follow the therapy from the chart. It would even the effects and keep him awake and clear.

He thought of adding one more transfusion, but he couldn't wait that long, it took more than an hour to finish.

He called the store and confirmed his order, and the delivery was on its way, so he returned to bed so Frank wouldn't catch him standing. He was still on a short leash and it was pissing him off; the inability to walk and _move_ was the worst thing imaginable for him. The Hitter was raging inside, though Retrieval Specialist was just annoyed. The third one was calm, and waiting. And calculating.

While he was waiting, he entertained himself by going through all the possible scenarios, and solutions to unexpected problems, checking how many of those he had covered and solved. For now, he had three reserve plans for his every step, but he had only one for the restraints. Google was very useful again; Patrick made a huge mistake by revealing his weapon without using it – he searched every manufacturer of medical bed restraints, though the _medical_ restraints were hard to find. He also found all the legal issues, conditions and permissions of their use. Yes, they could avoid all of that with Betsy report he's dangerous for the staff but in one explanation of the restraining process he found an interesting detail; to avoid problems with IVs and circulation, the restraints had to have at least three centimeters of free space from the wrists, making it one and a half on both sides. And they were padded on the inside, with thick, soft material to avoid bruising. With those three centimeters, and the material that he could cut with his scalpel and give himself even more space to pull out his hand, the restraints were just a decoration.

When an unknown nurse came in to give him the morphine, Frank came in with her.

It was time to start the show, and Eliot clicked remote and turned on the TV, disabling the team from seeing what was going on.

"She asked me to stay close," Frank said, leaning at the door frame, and Eliot, for who knows what time, asked himself how Betsy managed to scare the nurses so much. Not even Frank, an elderly and experienced cop, was immune to it. He tried to look harmless and weak, and smiled at him.

"You know Patrick has told me to stun you if you try to leave the room?" Frank asked him, visibly assessing him, and the nurse almost jumped back.

"Yeah, you know him… good intentions and all that crap. It wasn't enough that he drugged me. By the way, you see that thing stuck into my ribs?" Frank tilted his head and nodded, following the tube to the Pleurevac. "And you still think I can reach the door?"

"Well, I've told him he's slightly overreacting…"

"Don't tell me it _worked_?"

"Nope," the cop smiled. The nurse finished giving him the morphine and left, doing her regular checks in less than thirty seconds, and Eliot smiled at the cop again, knowing that with that last dose, the countdown clock had just started.

If he had calculated the ETA right, his things were entering the hospital just now, so Frank could stay at the door freely. It would be even better if he was still there when the delivery came, it would be over much sooner.

He missed it by a few minutes, because just when he was trying to say something to keep Frank in conversation, two girls with boxes and balloons showed up at the door.

"Delivery for 304, Daniel Crane!" one of them chirped to Frank.

"Whoa, wait!" he stretched his arm in front of her, but the other one was in the room already, putting away boxes. "What delivery, and who authorized it?"

"How the hell can I know?" The girl handed him a paper. "It's from the lobby desk, the nurses said we can go. Call them and check."

Eliot used Frank's calling the lobby to sign the receipt, listening the confirmation of Doctor Sciortino's orders. Frank checked the girls' IDs, took the number of the store and checked there too, and he had to let them go in a less than two minutes.

Then he stared at the four square and five round boxes in different colors, with balloons attached to them.

"What the hell is this, Spencer?"

"I was going to ask you the same question."

"Patrick told me to check everything suspicious."

"By all means," Eliot stared at boxes and balloons, confused. "I don't like it either. No one is supposed to know I'm here, and I'm not expecting any presents. Do you have metal detector?"

"No, but I can go and borrow one from security. You think this might be-"

"A bomb, yes. Green and red balloons? Those are the colors of the Chilean flag."

Frank cursed under his breath.

"Wait, give me that note. Don't touch anything yet."

Frank carefully detached the big pink envelope that was hanging from one box, and handed it to him.

"Okay, I am fucked." Eliot whispered when he read it. "FUBAR fucked, precisely."

"Chileans?"

"No. Much worse," he slowly raised his head, with stricken eyes. "It's my mother."

Frank just blinked, obviously not sure if he should be suspicious or laugh.

"And I've told Doctor Sciortino not to contact any next of kin."

"So what's the big deal? She sent you some presents and card. It's nice."

"You don't get it," Eliot growled. "Last time I was at the hospital, she sent me a complete set of clothes, including the coat! 'Cause her son had to be decent and _elegant_ in a fucking hospital! No, it's not funny! She is coming tomorrow, and yes, I am fucking escaping from here! Just try to stop me, just try! Fuck the Chileans, she'll be here for a week!" his voice held enough horror in it, and Frank was now grinning, not even trying to hide it. "Give me that square box with green balloon, will ya'? Shit, no, you open it, I can't."

He waited, hoping that the girl who took his order didn't mix up his wishes about arranging and decorating the presents, but he shouldn't have worried. Frank opened it and sneered, pulling out big pajamas, light blue, with dancing elephants holding daises.

"Mama knows best," he cooed.

"This will be a week to remember," Eliot whispered. "Please, throw all that in that corner, under the TV. If anything else comes, especially with balloons, _please_, burn it in the yard. Unless it's a Chilean bomb, that one you may pass."

"I might do that." Frank saluted and went out, still grinning.

When the door closed, Eliot sank deeper into the pillows. This was… not bad. He was getting quite good at this annoying grifting shit.

The balloons and boxes were beneath the TV, and he knew the camera was near it, so they couldn't see the presents.

He pulled the scalpel and syringe from the pillow, and stood up, slowly bending down. Jesus, he'd have to avoid that kind of movement, the room whirled and pain sliced him, all at the same time. But he managed to reach under the bed and take those two pieces of duct tape that he noticed this morning when he almost fell. He had no idea who left that duct tape under the bed, but those two stripes might save his life, now when all his dressings, gauze and tape were gone.

He had everything he needed at hand. Just one more phone call and he was out of here.

The TV had been turned on for a long time now, and he didn't want Nate to become restless not knowing what was happening in the room. If he sent someone to check, it would mess up everything, so he turned it off and prepared for another couple of minutes of just laying down and looking drugged.

It was getting darker.

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They were still waiting for the numbers to add them to the letters and diagrams, and Hardison was making a map of every blind spot that could be important if the Chileans shot the security cameras, but Nate still pondered on the papers. All the things that Eliot wrote were divided into three, no, four parts, separated by lines under every one. The diagrams were on the end, he didn't count them in.

The fourth group was different than the others, the numbers and letters were in columns, and the entries were significantly shorter.

The first two had groups of ml, and mm letters. 'Ml' obviously standing for milliliters, and it was connected to the morphine dosage, but the 'mm', millimeters, confused him a long time until he figured it out.

"Hardison," he called the hacker. "Do you remember when you joked about him looking at the mirror and checking to see if he was still pretty?"

"Yeah, why?"

"He was checking something else. Find me the side-effects of morphine and print it."

It took less than a few minutes until Hardison fount it and printed it, and brought him the paper, peering into his papers. "What have you found?"

"Millimeters. He was checking the dilating of his pupils."

"What? Why the hell-"

"I don't know yet. But, when we get the numbers that go with that, I'm pretty sure that it will be a comparison of different amounts of morphine. It may not look important, but think… if you want, you can hide that you're drugged by simply not talking or moving, and sitting still. However, you can't hide that your pupils are the size of a needle point."

"I still can't see how that would help him to escape from the hospital."

"It's like a puzzle, Hardison. It gets easier when you put the first piece in the right place. But, without the numbers, we can't guess anything."

Hardison went back to his desk. "I'll call Gilit. We got the video again, he turned off the TV. It was about time. Do you want me to check what he was watching? I hope it's not some Alcatraz escape shit."

"No, no need for that." Nate rubbed his eyes, looking at Hardison's table. It was too far away from him to see the monitor, he saw only a blurred blue screen, after he spent so much time looking at the papers, so he stood up to come closer. And stopped in the middle of a step. Hardison noticed his abrupt stop and eyed him. "Something wrong?" he asked immediately.

Nate stared at the monitor, and said nothing. He slowly went closer, narrowing his eyes, until he was able to clearly see the room and the bed on the screen, then checked his position. He was nearly three meters from the table.

"Okay, you're scaring me now, officially."

"That son of a bitch," Nate whispered, shaking his head. "Hardison, have you ever had a concussion?"

"I was hit in the head, yes, but not a real concussion, I don't think. Why?"

"When you were hit, I bet you only wanted to lay in the dark, and keep all the noise and light to a minimum, right? So, can you tell me, why the man who is drugged with a double dose, and having nasty nausea and blurred, triple vision, like Betsy said, is watching TV? _How_ he can watch TV?"

"Erm, maybe he just… listens?

"I've told you before, he won't stay down. Betsy said he's leaving tonight. This is not the time for listening to TV, it would just distract him. No, he is doing it on purpose, he is _using_ that damn TV."

"And what are you trying to say?"

"Not only does he know about the camera, he also knows that the TV ruins the signal. That's why he keeps turning it on and off, hiding everything suspicious, and letting us see just the innocent and harmless half sleeping."

"No way! No fucking way! How?"

Nate glanced at the monitor once more, and went back to his papers. "We shall find out. You know what this means?"

"If he knows about the camera – and I still think it's impossible – then he knows it's ours. That we are here. That we… shit."

"Precisely."

"What now?" the hacker asked wearily.

"Nothing. Keep an eye on him and finish those blind spots in the security feed. If he does _anything_, call me. If he messes with the camera again, and it lasts longer than five minutes, we'll call Frank to check what he's doing. I'll go out as soon as Sophie and Parker talk with security about the blind spots. I know what Villacorta will do tonight, and we'll be prepared. Remember, first things first. We have to stop the assault, that's the priority right now."

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Eliot couldn't rest for long. Seven minutes had passed since the last dose, and he slowly sat up in the bed, deciding to leave the camera on. He knew that the camera's recording wasn't all the detailed and that they couldn't see what exactly he was doing with his phones and bandages. When he prepared the pieces of duct tape with the scalpel, dealing with the chest tube lasted no more than twenty seconds. It looked only like an adjustment of the bandages and some fixing. He also raised the pillows as if he was only trying to make himself comfortable. It was easy to hide the end of the now disconnected chest tube behind his back, and to pull the blanket a little higher to hide it.

The next step was the phone call, and after that, the last step. The moment he disconnected the heart monitoring clamps from his fingers, his readings would start howling a flat line in the nurse's control room, and he had to synchronize _everything_ in less than a minute.

He prepared the phone, but before he started all that mess, he took a few seconds to asses all the effects of this double dose, and his condition in general.

His hand was shaking.

The objects that he watched were late, it seemed they lagged behind for a second and then tried to catch up by abruptly jumping in front of his eyes, dividing themselves into three blurred shapes. Focusing and clearing the image lasted almost three seconds.

Every quick move of the eyes sent waves of nausea over him, and controlling it took an immense effort. But it could be done.

While he was only standing, weakness was not an issue, but walking would put all his strength to the test, and he had no idea how it was going to work. Yet, it would do no good to dwell on things he couldn't change or prove for now.

His thinking was slow and jagged, he had to reconsider every thought and do double checks of everything, which would be deadly when he got in a situations that needed quick decisions and correct responses, but there were only four people who could notice that in his speech.

The pain was not unbearable when he was standing; he had already checked slow movements and if he coordinated it with shallow breathing, he would be able to do all the necessary, ordinary things that people had to do while leaving some place: opening doors, walking, stairs, elevators. Everything else had to wait, for now.

Step by step.

Those minutes were enough for his audience to calm down, but one second before he reached for the remote, the door opened after a knocking.

He cursed under his breath; he didn't need interruptions in this phase, but he quickly relaxed and smiled, turning to the door.

It was a good thing he had a smile ready, because he froze when the redheaded nurse entered. _Finally entered his room, in the fucking last two minutes of his stay here_. He didn't know if he should laugh, or be pissed, or be grateful for this coincidence. He settled on being grateful, for starters, and quickly scanned the room to see if there was something suspicious that she could notice, and pulled the blanket up few more centimeters, and broadened his smile.

He _could_ consider himself lucky, after all this shit. It was nice a way to end his stay in the hospital. He knew the balloons summoned her, she came to check what was going on, and it was a pity he hadn't done it much sooner.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Crane?" she asked from a distance like all the other nurses did, but she wasn't as stiff as them, she was looking at him with interest. A somewhat strange sort of interest, not quite the one he would like to see.

"Not bad, thank you," especially after he managed to focus completely and clearly see how beautiful she was. "Though, I'm freezing," he remembered to add. "Pretty strange, considering the room temperature is constant all the time."

"Let's see what we can do about it," she went to the display to check the room temperature, giving him a nice chance to see her walking all the way across the room. It was a shame that she wore extremely oversized scrubs that covered her entire shape.

"You know, I've met a lot of nurses, and I dated even more of them, but I've never seen the one who can heal her patients just by entering their rooms. Until now."

"Dated? Do rapists date their victims, or you just call it that?"

"What?" he almost choked. "What rapists? Who-"

"Betsy told us you're a rapist, and that's why you're guarded. The other nurses were frightened, but I'm not so easy to scare." She smiled, watching him. "You look surprised."

He stared at her, stopping a few very inappropriate curses. "I'm not rapist. Christ. I'm a witness in a shooting. Go and ask Frank if you don't believe me." He shook his head, still stunned. That evil, evil- "I should have known she'd do something like that!"

"So, Betsy framed you? Why?"

"I can bet her son made her do it. We work together. I'm sure he is enjoying this now, knowing he chased all the pretty nurses away from me. I'm _really_ glad you told me about that."

"And I'm glad you're just a victim of a prank. It would be such a shame if you were a rapist."

"So, is there any chance that you will actually spend some time in this room, and not just fifteen seconds, like all the other nurses?"

She frowned. And came few steps closer, thank God. "They were neglecting you?"

"All day. I'm completely alone, and bored." He thought he would have to try harder with smiles, but he instantly got one in return.

"We certainly can't let that happen again," she decidedly lowered the railings of the bed so she could sit, and she smiled again, scanning his bandages with quick looks, giving him enough time to adjust his blurred vision and focus his eyes on a much closer target.

Eliot stared at her for almost ten seconds, just admiring the perfection; bright blue eyes in a porcelain face, and long eyelashes, darker than her hair. The fiery red hair was pulled out of her face, and only a few locks had escaped. He should consider her as just another means to escape from here, but he found that concentrating on his leaving was harder than he thought. And it could be dangerous, for him.

"I'll check your IVs first, and then we shall find some way to entertain you, okay?"

"I have a better idea." Checking the IVs was out of question now, so he stopped her by taking her hand, gently, in one natural move, not raising any suspicion. "If I entertain _you_, you would come more often. I will tell you a story about a patient who waited for a faerie since the first time he saw her at his door."

She hesitated a second, but she didn't try to pull her hand away. "It will have a happy ending, right? It would be _such_ a shame if it didn't." This smile was so brilliant that he had to blink, not to focus his eyes anymore, but his mind. _Damn Kenzo Flower, that perfume was a killer_ _for the concentration_. He felt his heart skip a beat, literally; he heard one different beep from the monitor. This was _so_ not good.

"Do you know why I told you I dated many nurses?" he whispered and she unwittingly leaned a little closer. "Because, sweetheart, I know a lot about them and their work. Remember the first time I saw you, when you entered while I was speaking with Bonnano? I know nurses never knock when they enter a patient's room. You did. I know they never let unannounced visitors stay, they throw them out mercilessly, no matter if he's a cop. You didn't. They never let the next shift to take care of the patient just because of a visit. You did. They have to fill a chart before they go home. You didn't." He watched her eyes getting wider, but he twisted her wrist while he was speaking, just enough for her arm to be immobilized. "And, finally, when a patient says he is freezing, the nurses don't check if the room is warm enough, they check _his_ temperature, immediately."

She stared at him, and he pulled her closer, gently moving a lock of her hair from her cheek. "Now… you can reach, slowly, and hand me that gun or I can break your neck and take it myself. Which would be _such_ a shame."

He gave her five seconds, watching the dozens of possible moves playing in her eyes, but at the end nothing was left. Her eyes were attentive and cold, like a snake that was waiting to attack, and he knew he had to watch his every move. But he smiled. This was _his_ playground. _Finally, a professional_.

She knew there was nothing she could do. So she nodded.

"Thank you," he said politely, not releasing his grasp. "And now, a very important question. Do you know how to make origami, darling?"

His waiting for a car and a gun was not in vain, after all.


	22. Chapter 22

This one has one nasty cliffhanger at the end, but I'll post the next chapter in a couple of hours (1-10) You should thank Trappercreekd for that, she sent me both chapters at the same time, because of that cliffhanger.

I've noticed that few of you said you're surprised that Nate&Co haven't found out about camera sooner - maybe they should, but his watching TV started after he woke up (he slept entire afternoon) I'm avoiding to note exact times as much as I can, I would get lost in it very fast, but I guess it wasn't more than two hours.

Sheherzade asked why Sophie didn't tell Nate, and he had to figure it out on his own - well, to be honest, I saved that to be possible dramatic moment in some part of the night, just in case, and then three things happened - first, because I have to balance Nate and Eliot (Nate has to be the mastermind, I mustn't diminish his role in this) it looked it was better to give him that. Second, I'm working on the third night right now, and there is no need for one more dramatic moment, I simply have no room to put it in it, and the third - I forgot about Sophie completely during all the time that passed from her realizing about Eliot knowing :D

Thank you, people :D

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_It is only one who is thoroughly acquainted with the evils of war that can thoroughly understand the profitable way of carrying it on._

_**-Sun Tzu, the Art of War**_

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"Nate, he's hitting on the nurse. I'm not sure if we should consider that 'unusual and suspicious behavior', because it isn't, but I thought you should know," Hardison said just a few minutes after Nate returned to his table.

"It would be usual normally, but not now." Nate stood up and went to look at the screen. The nurse's back was turned to the camera, but her hair was very familiar. "Though, it's that redhead… I met her yesterday, and thought that her fate was pretty much certain if she stayed within his reach." He almost smiled when he remembered her angelic smile. She was sitting on the bed, and it seemed they were in deep conversation.

"Pretty?"

"More than that. Poor girl. Keep watching, Hardison, he'll try to use her for something, though I think she'll be careful. Betsy told all the nurses that he is a rapist, to keep them far away from him, and…" his voice trailed off as he watched the scene. Something was not quite right about this picture. Maybe the story about being a rapist didn't hold water anymore, or Betsy simply canceled it, but… "If she thought he is a rapist, she would never come and sit so close to him. All the other nurses were scared and avoided that room as much as possible, entering only when they needed to. How come this one didn't?"

"If she's as pretty as you said, he would do the impossible to tame her… we can't know if this isn't, maybe, their fifth talk today. He can be very convincing when he wants to."

"Yeah, I know, but still… run a check on her, nevertheless. Just in case."

"On a nurse? Okay, but it's overkill."

"Just do it, Hardison."

"And there goes another turn of the TV… we can't see shit now. Which may be even better."

"No, it is not." Nate turned around and returned quickly. "Run that check as fast as you can."

She wasn't there to kill him with that gun, not while Frank was guarding the door. The gun was there because of the big attack they were preparing. As a nurse, she could kill him with much less noise.

Eliot waited until she finished making a butterfly from the chart paper, then told her to empty her pockets. IDs, a silencer, phone, and a syringe with a safety tip, full of yellow fluid. He could bet it was something with a delayed effect, that would buy her enough time to escape before Frank and nurses were alarmed with a suddenly dead patient.

The butterfly she made, using the paper from the chart, was beautiful.

_Eleven minutes from the last dose of morphine. Nineteen left_.

Eliot kept the TV off while she was sitting on the bed, making the butterfly, knowing they looked like they were talking, but he could spare only one minute on that. Fortunately, her arrival gave him a little more time, he didn't have to finish everything in a minute after he disconnected the heart clamps, 'cause now he had a heart ready to attach them to, without setting the alarms off.

He turned the TV on and blinded the audience, then slowly got up. She didn't try to move, not with her gun in his hand. He motioned her to take his place in the bed.

"You know, my first encounter with the Chileans involved yanking wires and half a second margin for error," he said, watching his own pulse on the monitor, waiting and counting. "Hold out your hand, and don't try to move. You'll be useful half-alive, too." Transferring the clamp from one hand to another wouldn't be a problem normally, but he had to fight his vision, and shaking hands, and put away the gun, all in less than a second, and for a moment it seemed like an impossible task, because he had to hide that tremor from her. Yet, the alarm didn't go off, he could hear just one irregular beat, a skip of one beep. Nothing that would need immediate checking.

Her heartbeat was much slower than his, steady, regular and _calm_. She watched him silently, with unreadable eyes, and he didn't know what he could expect from her. Yep, he _was_ in bad shape, he realized when he picked up the restraint from the floor, to cuff her right hand to the bed, and felt much _safer_. He was so concentrated on the task, that he didn't even notice he had made his first steps since he woke up, and that he didn't sway. Though, the room swayed enough for the both of them.

She didn't have to see how weak he was. Turning off the main light, cold and too strong, and turning on the small reading light behind her back, just set her hair on fire for real and made her even more beautiful, softening and shading her face and eyes. "I'll need your hair band," he said, and she gave him the band, releasing the fire in a curly cloud. _Shit. He had no time for staring_. "And your watch." He placed the tiny, gold watch on his wrist and observed it. He was pretty sure that was a real diamond heart on it, not an imitation.

The room was now dim and that would cover the unsteadiness of his steps, his shaking hands, and also his movements would look slow and considered. He managed to make them look relaxed and as if he was not in a hurry when he went to check the boxes. His complete set of clothes were in the round ones; underwear, deep purple Brioni shirt, Lanvin classic black suit, dark green hooded jacket, and in the last box, a belt, tie, sunglasses, and shoes.

It took him two minutes to get dressed, and he was grateful for the darkened room, so she couldn't see his struggle to balance his breathing, his movements, and his pain. By the time he had to put the shirt on, he was already swaying, and he had to sit down to clear the dark dots that started to dance in front of his eyes. Wonderful. Just _fucking_ wonderful. He should throw her out and crawl back into the bed, pull the blanket over his head and not move for the next three days.

He watched her, hoping that his silent assessment would look ominous, and cover his attempt to control his breathing, sitting as relaxed as he could, at the same time wanting to run his hands through his hair in utter frustration. However, his arms didn't seem to obey him.

"You have nothing to say?" he asked her, knowing he'd need one more minute to ease the pain to be able to continue putting on the shirt.

_Sixteen minutes from the last dose. Fourteen left_.

"I'm not satisfied with the left wing. Low quality paper," she said calmly. So much for the ominous stare that should have scared her.

Still sitting, he reached for the shirt; if his vision darkened again when he stretched his arms, at least he wouldn't fall. He forbid the pain entry to enter his mind, very successfully, because damn stuff spread everywhere except there - _way to go, you idiot_ - but he clenched his teeth and continued with the jacket without pause. He survived buttoning the shirt, despairing for a few seconds when the tie tried to turn into an octopus, and put the hooded jacket in one of the boxes.

Finished, at last. He allowed himself a few more shallow breaths before he stood up again. He should have been going, but she was a precious catch, and missing this opportunity might prove very dangerous later.

The Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape training from his past had to be adapted into a simple Confront and Confuse … and confusing the enemy was the main key to success. He couldn't miss this chance to place more mines in the minefield, because sooner or later, Villacorta would be forced to step on them. He couldn't know how high she was in Villacorta's organization, and what exactly she knew, but he had a feeling she was valuable property. If not something more. She would not be dismissed as a loss, Villacorta would try to pull her out as soon as possible. It would be enough if he only contacted her.

The easiest way would be to set her free, but he couldn't do that; Frank would be in danger, and the team would be too close for some time.

He observed the needle and the fluid in it. He could leave it on the cupboard with a note, and after the police analyzed it, she would be charged for attempted murder. But the murder of who? A disappeared victim, by the name of Daniel Crane, who was untraceable? Murder suspects were treated differently than ones who were charged with only trespassing and false identities, and he needed Villacorta to set her free as soon as possible, so he would receive everything Eliot would tell him via his lady killer.

"This, in police hands, could put you in jail for many years."

She said nothing. He carefully closed the tip on the syringe and put it in a pocket, and he knew she was wondering what he was up to, and why he was taking the evidence against her.

He knew she was confused already. But not nearly enough.

"What do you want to ask?"

"You stopped me. Why are you running?"

"Running? No, I'm leaving – with you, my job here is done, I have nothing to do here any more."

She glanced at his bandages beneath the shirt.

"Ah, _that_?" he smiled. "You think I was here because of an almost fatal chest wound, punctured lung, urgent operation, critical state, and everything that you read on my chart? All of that just the day before yesterday?" He smiled and raised both hands to fix his hair with her band, with a move that was apparently relaxed and without any effort, and that cost him five years of his life. "Just keep thinking that."

"Why pretending? How would you know that we would-"

"We couldn't know for certain, of course, that's why I had to be here, not raising suspicion… and what is the best way to blend in the SICU, than to be a patient? You really think it that all the nurses were forbidden to contact the dangerous rapist, only the chief nurse was dealing with him, because of the risk?"

"What were you trying to do? You are here because of our three men, aren't you?"

"Whatever I was trying to do, I did. My part is done, I have to meet my team again and see how they are doing."

"But how-"

"Listen, darling… those three were taken care of last night, but I stayed this long to finish it completely - because you made a mistake and revealed yourself. The three arrested Chileans couldn't free themselves, and arm themselves with guns and silencers without inside help who was, at the same time, a scout who could monitor everything. They had to have someone who could, without raising suspicion, enter their rooms after their guards left and uncuff them."

"You could tell someone."

"I'm a criminal; I was arrested in that warehouse just like your men were. Don't play stupid, you did your homework. We had to pull many, many strings in very high places to make my arrest just witness status, and that my guard doesn't have orders to shoot to kill. Yet, he is still a guard, and I'll have to get rid of him. Don't worry, I won't kill him and blame it on you, there are easier ways to do it. I will be busy tonight, and I don't want the police behind my back. Your car?"

"Black Hyundai, on Charles street."

"My team is here. I'll call them from Charles street, and they'll be here in two minutes."

"Orange Toyota, garage on Fruit Street."

"Thank you." He smiled, taking his phones. He took his syringe with the morphine, a scalpel, even the pen, not knowing what he would need, and his wallet with money and false IDs, from the cupboard. "Now, please, don't talk for a minute, will you?"

He dialed the lobby and waited until Rosalie answered the call.

"Rosalie, it's Matt!" he whispered. "No, I can't speak louder, listen… I'm in trouble. I went to my car for some things, and there's some street gang flag on my windshield!"

"What?!"

"It must be those guys from last night, they are here again! I'm hiding behind the cars, in the garage, and I can't get out, they could still be here-"

"I'm calling secur-"

"God, no, don't call our guys, the entire hospital will know before morning! Hiding behind a car? I'll never hear the end of it! Is there anybody else who you can send here?"

"We have one cop in SICU, and he is there because of that gang, I'll send him, he won't tell anybody. Just stay there."

"I'm an idiot, I was in SICU, and I totally forgot about him. Thank you."

He ended the call. _Twenty one minutes from the last dose, nine minutes left_.

All of her things were in his pockets, but he pulled out her phone and placed it near her hand. "You owe me."

"Why?" she asked, sounding skeptical.

Because Villacorta had to know immediately that he had left the hospital, which meant the team was no longer there too. "Because you'll find out, like you have already did, that things are not quite what they seem to be. That's why. Tell him we shall continue our conversation soon."

One more important thing was left; he took the remote and smiled, then turned the TV off for a less than a second. Clicking the remote as fast as he could, he went to the shelf and found the camera, then threw it on the floor and smashed it.

Eliot picked up the box with the jacket, checked one more time to see if he forgot something, smiled at his prisoner, and opened the door. Frank was on his way by now, and he needed the team to move too, to scatter and disperse them. _Confront and confuse, dear idiots_.

_If you want to win in war, draw your enemy into an open field_.

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"Try to understand, Nate, there is no such thing as typing: find me a pretty redhead nurse in Mass Gen!" Hardison hissed, annoyed. "I don't have a name, don't have anything except she's pretty, and I have to find her first on the security cameras, which even on fastfastfast forward takes _time_! Just five minutes have passed, so, please, stop crowding behind my back, your staring at my screens won't hasten that any- okay, there's something. Whoa, she _is_ pretty! Now I can start facial recognition and see if there's something suspicious about her, though I think there isn't, and you can relax."

"Relax? Hardison, have you noticed that we are precisely one step behind him in everything, and all we can do is just follow his moves?" Nate said, watching closely quick scanning of different faces. "Not to mention that things have sped up this last half an hour?"

"Yes, I've noticed. And I'm glad to inform you that this check won't last over fifteen minutes, it will take five minutes max, because the female database is much smaller and easier to search. Will you, please, spend those five minutes at _your_ desk?"

"No."

Hardison grumbled, but said nothing. Nate went to his desk and brought his papers and a chair back near the hacker. While they waited, Hardison received an email with the numbers from Gilit, so they had everything completed. The results from the facial recognition program came while he was printing the papers, with the letters and numbers finally together.

"Talking about speeding… here's your nurse. Clean as fresh snow, just one speeding ticket three months ago. Lydia Clayton, age 29, single, drives an orange Toyota, blah blah… Now, with that name, I can find her in Mass Gen administration. It will take just a minute." Hardison continued to type and Nate went through the papers as he waited, but Hardison's fingers suddenly stopped.

"Call Frank, now!" the hacker hissed through clenched teeth. "She's not a nurse, not assigned to the SICU, she's registered as help with the archive in administration, and she came yesterday!"

Nate was already waiting for Frank to answer, giving Hardison the sign to call Sophie and Parker. "Frank, go in the room, the redhead nurse is Chil- What?! On your way to where?! Damn it, go back, now!"

He ended the call and jumped to his feet. "Move! Frank is in the garage. They cleared the corridor."

"Nate…" Hardison pointed at the monitor. The screen was tilting at a fast pace, making it impossible to watch, and then went black. "The camera is dead."

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Instead of Frank, in corridor were two security guys, alertly glancing around. Frank had obviously called them to take his place while he was checking the garage. Nice move.

They turned around and stared at the man that came from the room they were supposed to watch.

"Who the fuck are you, and where is Frank?" Eliot snapped at them, not even trying to glare at them, he knew he already looked pissed. "Let me see your IDs, _now_!"

They looked at each other, confused. "We came because Frank called us-" one of them started.

"He was not supposed to leave!" Eliot snatched the ID from the hand of the other guy and glanced at it. "Well, you're real. Okay, stay here and tell Frank to call me as soon as he returns." he nodded towards the room. "I checked him right now, everything is all right – you two take care of that elevator and the stairs. Okay?"

"Okay, but – who are you, what should we tell Frank-"

"Doctor Sciortino. I'm just leaving for home, this was the last check. Do _not_ leave this corridor!"

They nodded, and he simply turned and walked away, counting the seconds, making his steps slow and natural.

_Twenty three minutes from the last dose, seven minutes left_.

One nurse was just leaving the nurse's room when Eliot closed the door to the stairs behind him. He had enough time.

He went down the stairs, passed the ground floor with the lobby, and went one floor lower, into the basement. Every SICU was connected to an Emergency unit garage, and this one was not an exception. By the time he reached the well lit, busy garage, his legs were shaking, but he slowly walked right in front of the camera that covered its entrance. He couldn't focus enough to actually _see_ the damn thing clearly, and he had to measure the camera's range just roughly. When he calculated he was surely out of its range, he pulled the jacket from the box and put it on, covering his face with the hood, and hiding the suit. The team and security would search for the man in the black suit, not in the green jacket.

He found one completely dark place in the shadows, and rested against the wall, then dialed Frank's number. "The redhead is a Chilean's scout, Frank. She's cuffed in the room, but she's still dangerous. Call those two guys and warn them, and go back. There's nothing in that garage."

"What have you- where are you?!"

"Already on a bus, forget it. Tell Patrick…" he hesitated a moment. "Never mind. Just thank him, will ya?"

He lost count of the time, too concentrated on remaining upright, but he could tell that the team had enough time to leave the apartment. Some of them probably were already in there, just at different spots, and he had to avoid them; very interesting task, when he wasn't able to see any face clearly even in the lit garage, much less in the dark street. Well, he would simply avoid everybody.

_When the enemy is lured into false battle, his back is unprotected_.

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Sophie and Parker were already on the third floor when Nate and Hardison arrived, right in the middle of the mess; alarms were going off in the nurse's room, and two security guys were taking away the redheaded nurse.

"He's gone," Sophie said sternly. Parker was pacing the hall to and fro.

"I'll check cameras," Hardison sat in one of the chairs and started working on his phone, connecting it to his workstation, and Nate went into the room, for the first time. He stayed less than ten seconds, scanning the room; the opened boxes, balloons, disconnected chest tube, and smashed camera.

When he returned to them, his phone rang. It was Frank so he put him on speaker.

"He just called me, warned me about the nurse and said there's nothing in the garage. And that he is already on the bus."

"Thank you, Frank."

"How he can be on the bus when he's practically naked, with just that gown?" said Sophie. "He must be somewhere near, he'll have to steal-"

"Erm, people…" Hardison interrupted her, staring at his phone. "He doesn't have to steal anything, I'm afraid. This is from the ER camera, just a few minutes ago."

"What?!" Sophie gasped, looking at the man in the black suit. Nate just glanced at the image. He wasn't surprised at all.

"Okay, people, listen up," he sighed. "He is not on the bus, he'll go to find the nurse's car. Orange Toyota. He'll be here for some time, he knows we are here and he'll be very careful. He won't risk hurrying now, and we'll have a chance to intercept him. Spread out, and search entire the complex. Search for him, and search for the car."

"How will we stop him?" Hardison murmured, still scanning the results from cameras.

"Just talk to him, and wait for the others to come." Nate glanced at Parker who was still restlessly pacing. "Parker, are you listening?"

She nodded, not stopping for a second.

"Is he drugged?" asked Sophie.

"Yes, a double dose. He'll be very slow and dizzy. Do not try to use it, for Christ sake, just keep him in one place as long as you can. When you talk to him, tell the others where are you exactly in the complex. If you find the car, tell us, hide and wait for him, he'll go there at some point. Questions?"

"I'll tell security that the man in the black suit is a patient that needs to be stopped." Sophie turned on her heel and went after the two security guys.

"Don't forget that some of the Chileans might already be here, preparing the attack," Nate told her before she disappeared in the elevator, and she nodded.

"Okay, go now. Spread out and search everything."

Nate glanced at the corridor once more, then turned around and went after the others. In a race between life and death, especially in one he was planning to win, looking back was of no use.

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Eliot stared at the locked door, his mind completely empty. He had nothing to unlock it, no strength to break in, and no time to wait for someone to enter and let him in. It took him almost a minute to remember he had a gun with a silencer; the lock gave way after just one shot, silent as a slap.

Damn, if obstacles like one lousy door kept him so long, what would happen when real trouble came his way? He was already pissed, he didn't need more reasons for rage.

He repeated the same procedure on the door of their office, and removed the silencer so he could put the gun at his belt, and not in the pocket of the suit. There was a chance that he came too late, that the Chileans were already there, and he had to be able to draw the gun quickly.

_Take over the enemy's headquarters, and you're in control of everything_.

In control of everything, except of yourself. He closed the door behind him, leaned on the wall, and just slid down, until he was sitting on the floor. His heart was beating so hard that he could hear its thumping in his ears, and he was gasping like he had just ran five miles, and not just crossed the street and climbed a few stairs. The problem was, he couldn't allow himself to breathe deep and fast, and he was on the verge of passing out because of the mere lack of oxygen. He couldn't see shit, the room was black and blurry, and it was _moving_.

This walking with the double dose was a test; he needed to see if there was any chance he could function on it. And he failed. The double dose could ease the pain in the bed, when he was calm and immobile, but with moving it was practically useless.

That meant he'd have to do the thing he dreaded from the very beginning. _Fuck that shit_. He rested his forehead on his knees, resisting the urge to slam his head harder. The fear clawed at him – no, the damn horror clawed at him - the terrifying thought that he wouldn't be able to control it, that he'd… he cut off that thought before it could take a root.

Exhaustion made focusing much harder, and he was drifting away, unable to keep his thoughts in order. He closed his eyes and waited for his breathing to calm down, and his vision to clear, and most of all, to impose some order on his mind. Yet, he couldn't do it for long. As soon he was sure he wouldn't fall down, he got up and went to the big table. The thing he came for was there; his silver phone, put aside and left in the open. His papers too, sorted and translated. They were faster than he thought, dangerously closing in.

He put all of it in his pocket and looked at Hardison's screens with the security footage still on; thank god he didn't have to search for it. One by one, he found the team and located them in the complex, all except Parker, but it didn't surprise him. She was probably sweeping the roofs and searching for him from a bird's eye view. He knew exactly how much time he still had.

Keeping one eye on the screens the whole time, he opened Hardison's case files. He had to question everything, including the data they had sent him. He didn't think they'd sent him the wrong info, or something completely useless, but he was pretty certain he didn't get it all, particularly not after they realized he was planning to leave the hospital.

He went through every file, checking the team's position every few seconds. Nate was last seen near Charles street, Hardison was making the ambush near the garage entrance, and Sophie was with security guys on Fruit street. No Chileans on sight, thank God.

He had to admit they were pretty fair with the info they'd sent him, because the only new thing that he didn't get was a very interesting piece of information. He looked at the smiling man whom he remembered from the warehouse, then again at his younger image in an article about the Boston Gun Project. Randall Coddington. Fernando. Hardison's comments on the file made it completely clear; a dirty cop who changed sides.

His memory of that man was very poor, though he clearly remembered the one who shot him and who got away. He didn't need to go through his file to remember him. Cuchillo, the Knife, a pretty good street fighter. The one with his tracking device. Eliot knew Hardison would track him the entire time, but he wasn't certain where to find those results. He stared at the keyboard, thinking about pressing random buttons, but it could summon Hardison sooner than would be wise. No, his search was definitely over; the nausea was getting worse with every glance at the screens, so he slowly turned away from the table and the blinking images.

And found himself staring directly at a big hospital bed. He knew who ordered it and why, and no curse was strong enough to ease _that_ pain. He was standing still, clutching the chair to keep himself steady, but the nausea became almost unbearable at that point. He barely had time to reach the bathroom before he started throwing up.

His stitches showed their gratefulness with rabid stabbing, and everything was spinning so badly he barely had the strength to straighten up and erase all the traces of his being there. Crap, he _was_ dull… he remembered the destroyed lock on the door, and realized there wasn't any need to cover his presence. His brain was not working, and it scared him. Cold water on his face helped a little, yet the sight in the mirror was disturbing. He had seen corpses with more life in their eyes, and healthier face color. His eyes were surrounded with purple shadows that matched the color of his shirt perfectly, and he almost laughed.

"This will help."

He turned quickly and the movement almost knocked him down, too sudden and without control. Parker was standing at the bathroom door, with a glass of something orange.

_Shit_. At least she was alone. Though, with the damn comms… he pointed to her ear, and hold out his hand. She frowned but pulled out the comm and gave it to him.

"You really should drink this, it helped me yesterday when I was feeling dizzy and almost fainted." She continued like nothing had happened. "Nate said it's because of the sugar. You should sit down, too, you're barely standing."

She carefully came one step closer, and slowly put the glass on the sink, near him, like she was trying to give food to a distrustful animal. She looked… different. The last time he saw her was in Lucille, before he went back, just three days ago, though it seemed an eternity now - and that Parker had nothing in common with this pale, worried, worn version of the same girl.

They were here, in this mess, because of him, damn it, and everything that would happen, would be only his fault. Right in that moment, while he stared at her tired and worried eyes, he realized he was in a race with himself. One Eliot had to save them, before the other Eliot could kill them. _What an encouraging thought, indeed_.

"Why?" he whispered.

"Why what?"

"Why you were feeling dizzy and almost fainted? What happened?"

A small wrinkle emerged between her eyebrows, and she hid her arms behind her back. "I was… hungry." She shifted, and then thrust her hands in her pockets. He closed his eyes for a moment, oscillating between wanting to hug her and strangling her, as always, but this time he had to suppress the deep sigh. The realization hit him hard, unexpected; there was no chance he could repeat the same speech he recited to Hardison, not when her eyes were so… her.

God, he had to hurry and finish all of this before they all got killed, he couldn't let her soften him, and remind him of how priceless they were to him. _And how much he already missed them_. It was like a reward; they were worthy only if living, not dead. She was standing there stopping him from saving _her_ life, Christ, why couldn't they understand that – he wouldn't hesitate one second in removing them if they got in his way - it was the only way to end this! If he had to squash her right here, he would do it, he would find the strength for it… yet he couldn't force himself to speak. Remove her, even hit her, that he was able to do, knowing what was at stake – but hurt her, that fragile _something_ that was her essence? No chance in hell.

"Parker, who killed that man in the corridor?" he asked her a question that had been bothering him constantly since he has heard about it, and held his breath while she was thinking.

"One of his men, I don't know why. He was already dead when we came."

There were no lies in her eyes, and he started to breathe again. He did everything to spare them from that, and it would be a cruel irony if _he_ was the reason for them to start killing people.

"You're not allowed to leave the office, you know that?" she said with a slightly harder voice, as if she was hardening herself too. She probably did; he suddenly became aware that she could be a real, dangerous obstacle. Capable of everything, and totally unpredictable even for him.

"Don't even think about stopping me, Parker, it won't end well. Move away from the door. Now."

She tilted her head to one side and he swore silently, but she backed away, giving him free passage from the bathroom. He went after her, while all the alarms went off in his head, and found her digging in one of the bags. When she straightened up, she had a gun in her hand.

"I can't talk to you long enough to keep you here. I'll shoot." Her eyes were stern when she took the safety off, reminding him of some other warehouse and gun she pointed at them, at the beginning. Even her voice had the same lunatic, vicious edge in it. _Her special angry place_. "I won't let you go and ruin everything."

"Ruin what, Parker?" he asked calmly, relaxing his arms. _Shutting everything, except the inner, calm place in his mind._

"Us. Them. Me. The team. Yourself. Pick a card, Eliot." She moved away, keeping a distance between them. "You've told me that the two of us do the things others can't do, remember? They wouldn't do this, they couldn't, but you know _I will_ shoot you. You survived one bullet, you can do it again. You are not going anywhere."

"I know you'll shoot," he said gently, focusing his eyes and slowing his breathing. "And you're right, we _do_ things other can't, or won't do. You're right about everything, darlin'."

He wanted to weep when he saw the flickering hope growing in her eyes, and lighting her from within. Then the light vanished, when he drew his gun and pulled the trigger.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

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Nate was following one security guy who was searching the perimeter, keeping a solid fifty meters distance between them, using every shadow he could find. He knew Eliot wouldn't be easy to find, and that he wouldn't let some security guy chase him into the open. He would simply wait and let him pass him by, then go wherever he wanted to go. Catching him in that moment was only the chance they had. He told the rest of the team to use the security as decoys, too, and stay invisible.

He had to do one more thing, and he dialed a number.

"Hi, Patrick, I've got a bad news, and good news. Good news first?"

"Shoot," Patrick sighed.

"The good news is that Frank can go home and sleep."

"Fuck." Patrick didn't need the rest of it. "When did he leave?"

"Few minutes ago. Strapped the Chilean redhead nurse to his heart monitoring wires, ordered a suit, removed Frank, and walked out. We are searching the complex right now, there might be slight chance he'll use her car."

"That pretty nurse is Chilean?"

"You noticed her too? Speaking of unobtrusive spies… she really did a good job."

The silence was long while they both thought about the situation.

"There's nothing legal I can do," Patrick said finally. "I can spread the word that the hospital is searching for a runaway patient who is in danger, demented and very ill, to only locate him and not try to bring him in… it's not much, but it might help. For anything else, the hospital has to do a legal request via regular channels, and that will take time."

"Whatever he is going to do, will be finished tonight." Nate though about telling him about Eliot's real condition, but the team was listening through their comms.

"Yes, I'm aware of that. I'll stay home 'til I heard something concrete, then I'll go to the station to be near. Call me if anything happens."

"You too."

Nate ended the call. "Any news, people?" he asked the others.

"Checking out an idea, talk to you later," Parker whispered.

"I located the orange Toyota, second floor of the garage, and I'm making an ambush," Hardison reported.

"Following the security," said Sophie. "Still nothing. Where are you?"

"Near Charles street, going back now, nothing here. Parker, where are you, and what idea are you checking?"

The only answer was silence.

"Parker, respond!" he tried again.

"This will help," she said after almost thirty seconds that stirred all of their nerves.

"What will help? Parker, what are you doing?" Nate frowned at her voice; it was quiet and soft, and there wasn't any background noise. She said nothing, again, and the silence was complete this time.

They all waited, no one said a word, when Nate's phone rang. It was her.

"Where are you, damn it, what's go-" he stopped abruptly when he heard Eliot's voice, distant and muffled.

"_Parker, who killed that man in the corridor?_"

The sound was poor, as if her phone was covered with something, and he realized she pressed the speed dial while holding the phone in her pocket. Eliot took her earbud.

"She can't hear us, the phone is in her pocket," he said to Sophie and Hardison. "Be quiet and just listen."

"_One of his men, I don't know why. He was already dead when we came_." After a short pause, she added, just slightly stronger, "_You're not allowed to leave the office, you know that_?"

Office. "Okay, move!" He started running while he was speaking. If she managed to keep him just a few minutes more, they'd-

"_Don't even think about stopping me, Parker, it won't end well. Move away from the door. Now._" Eliot's voice held no threat, nor did Nate feel anything dangerous in it, but nevertheless, his choice of words was disturbing.

"_I can't talk to you long enough to keep you here. I'll shoot_." _Her_ voice, on the other hand, was unsteady, and Nate hastened his steps. Jesus, the guns from the bag. Parker with a gun. And they were too far away, they couldn't reach them in time. "_I won't let you go and ruin everything._"

"_Ruin what, Parker?"_

"_Us. Them. Me. The team. Yourself. Pick a card, Eliot. You've told me that the two of us do the things others can't do, remember? They wouldn't do it_, _they couldn't_, _but you know I will shoot you. You survived one bullet, you can do it again. You are not going anywhere_."

Nate had to ask the others where they were, and how long would it take to enter their building, but he couldn't force himself to speak, to interrupt their words. If any other member of the team was involved in this scene, he wouldn't be frightened so much, _but two of them_ – he couldn't tell who was more unstable in that moment. Fuck, they were dangerous in the best of times, and unarmed, and to give guns to them, was like letting children play with flamethrowers. A cold sensation went up and down his spine, and the words were struck in his throat.

"_I know you'll shoot. And you're right, we do things other can't, or won't do. You're right about everything, darlin'_."

And after that, guns went off, deafeningly loud even through the phone. Two shots, two bullets, fired almost at the same time. Sophie's cry of dismay was muffled as if she held a hand in front of her mouth, and Nate had to stop. He couldn't allow any sound to escape him, and he slowed his labored breathing as much as he could. But on the other end of the line was only deadly silence.

"Parker? Eliot?" Damn, they couldn't hear him in her pocket, but he couldn't force himself to end the call and call Eliot. "Hardison, call Eliot."

"It goes straight to voice mail, Nate," the hacker said after a long pause.

"Damn." He continued to listen, searching for any sound, but it was in vain, he could hear nothing. Second after second, just dead silence, not even the sound of moving, steps, breathing… nothing.

"Hardison, where are you?" he asked when he emerged on Blossom street, an eternity later.

"There in a minute," his voice was a ghost of a whisper.

"Sophie?"

"In front of the main door," she whispered. "The lock has been shot. Entering."

Nate continued to walk quickly, he was only fifteen seconds behind her. Not two minutes had passed from the gunshots, but the silence was frightening, seemingly prolonged for hours.

"Sophie, I'm right behind you - whatever you see, don't do anything stup-"

"God, no!" Sophie's choked cry cut off his words. "Parker, can you hear me? Parker! Nate, she's bleeding!"

He flew up the stairs and entered the office, faintly registering that Hardison was just a few seconds behind him.

Parker was unconscious, deathly pale, and laying on the sofa. Nate averted his gaze from the blood on the floor and came closer. Her leg was a bloody mess, and Sophie was wrapping another bandage over the first one and her trousers, trying to stop the bleeding.

"He shot her! That son of the bitch shot Parker!" Hardison slid between them, kneeled and checked Parker's pulse. "Nate, this is not just a graze, this is serious, it's, it's…"

"Shhhh…" Sophie said quietly. "Don't panic, Hardison, she'll be alright. Can you carry her? We have the best ER in town just a minute away."

"Of course I can. But wait… find her IDs, take Alice White, she's the most solid one. Nate…"

"The hospital will report a gunshot wound, but we have the Chileans, don't worry. Just say you saw Latinos playing with guns on the bench while walking to your car, and that one gun went off. They ran away, it was dark, you didn't see any faces. You wrapped her leg with a first aid kit from the car, and carried her immediately to the hospital. Okay? I'll call Patrick to send someone whom he can trust to take the statement."

"Okay." Hardison sighed. He carefully, gently, picked Parker up in his arms, with one hand behind her back, one under her knees, until her head was resting on his shoulder, and Nate blinked, realizing how strong the hacker actually was. It seemed like she weighted no more than a child.

"I'll go with them." Sophie got up. "You stay here, it's better not to crowd the ER, I'll stay aside too."

Nate just nodded, watching them going out.

He was grateful for the few seconds of complete, utter emptiness of his mind; there was too much of everything to process all at once. He slowly raised his hand and ran it through his hair, feeling the return of the headache, then exhaled a long, tired breath and went into the bathroom to find some rags to clean the floor and remove the blood.

Then he noticed something new in the room.

On the Hardison's table, near his keyboard, a paper butterfly was resting with opened wings.

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"She has to stay in the hospital tonight, to be observed." When Sophie spoke, Nate looked up, realizing they'd returned. He was thinking, with his gaze fixed on the boobs on the wall. Right between the boobs was a hole from Parker's bullet. "She's alright," she continued. "The bullet went through, there's no serious damage, though she'll limp for a week or two, when walking without crutches."

"Did she say anything?" asked Nate.

"No." Sophie's eyes swiveled to the Hardison who had sat at his table without a word. "Not talking at all. Hardison went with the story, and I've told doctors she's extremely sensitive and must still be in shock, and…" she took a deep breath and smiled. "She'll be okay in the morning. She needs to sleep it off, that's all." The smile remained on her face, as if it was glued there.

"Hardison, you're okay?" Nate chose those lame words on purpose; any normal human being would be pissed after hearing that question, and Hardison wasn't an exception. He turned his chair to face him, in a single quick move.

"I'm covered with my girlfriend's blood, Nate," he said through clenched teeth. "From the gunshot wound that my best friend made in her! I'm beyond okay, Nate. I'm so fucking okay that I've reached nirvana sixteen times already!"

"Good. We have work to do, and I need you to be awake and alert."

"What damned work do we have to do?! We can't leave Parker in that hospital alone, just like we couldn't leave that drugged idiot who is now staggering around who knows where. We are in exactly the same position we were last night, but in much deeper shit; I wonder why they didn't put Parker in his room, now that it's free… we've gotten used to that room, and we can just continue to sit here and think we're doing something! Fuck off and leave me alone!"

"Drugged idiot? You think he shot her because he was drugged? Don't be naïve Hardison."

The hacker's eyes narrowed. "What are you trying to say?"

"I had enough time to think after you'd left," Nate sighed. "I don't know how and when he found out about the camera and-"

"This morning, with Patrick." Sophie said. "Patrick had told him about getting up, the thing no one was supposed to see, and that triggered the attack. He knew all day."

Nate thought about it for a moment."You should have told me that."

"No, I shouldn't," she said calmly. "It wouldn't change anything, would it?"

"No, I guess you're right, it wouldn't. The thing is, Hardison, that while we thought we had the advantage in this situation and relaxed because of it, he slowly regained the leverage during the day. Knowing we are here, he knew how the board was set, and his moves were made according to that, while we were kept in the dark and in a false sense of security. He played us. And played me. And he is continuing to do that."

"He is a hitter, Nate, you're overreacting. Yes, he can grift when he needs to, and he did it, okay, but he can't-"

"We are not dealing with a hitter here, Hardison." Nate took a crumpled piece of paper and tried to flatten it out. "Nor with a grifter. He isn't doing cons or scams, and I don't know his moves. This," he gave him the paper, "was an origami butterfly he left here on the table before he left. Read it."

"_Can you imagine what I would do if I could do all that I can_?" Hardison read the written words and looked at him. "Is this a threat, or a warning, or-"

"It's an introduction." Nate smiled. They both looked at him, confused. "And explanation. And a guideline and a map. And an apology. And help. And yes, definitely a warning, too." He took the paper back from Hardison and looked at it once more. "You see, these are not his words. It's a quote from Sun Tzu's 'The Art of War'. He decided to tell me _who_, precisely will fight tonight. Most of all, it's a message: 'stay away, you have no idea what you are dealing with, it's not your game anymore.' Like I said, it's not grifting or conning, people… we are dealing with military tactics now."

"We don't know anything about his military career, Nate," said Sophie. "How can we know what to expect? Knowing him, this could be a false lead, to-"

"Nope, he's doing it already. There was no need to smash a camera that was turned off, right? He did it to lure us from the office, and he succeeded. He used a simple decoy, and we fell for it. He took his phone with Villacorta's number, and his papers, and used Parker as one more distraction."

Hardison growled. "You could choose some other words. She's not a tool, not even for him!"

"But she was. A tool, or better yet, a tiny little soldier toy that he moved on his board. We all are just that, for now. He is moving us, Hardison, right now as we speak." Nate smiled at the hacker's expression. "Do you know what's now the safest spot in whole town, completely out of any danger, the safest to be in?"

"Massachusetts General." Sophie whispered.

"Precisely. He came for his phone, to tell Villacorta immediately that he is no longer here, that he is out and after him. That means we are not here, too, there's no need to be close. Villacorta probably thinks we are all together, and on the move. He'll pull out, or he did already, every single Chilean killer from the hospital, and he won't think twice about it the whole night. Hardison, I'm pretty sure Eliot could stop and disarm Parker without shooting her. But he chose to do this, so he could be sure we had to stay at the hospital, safe and squared away, this time because of her."

"He can take his tactics and stick them where the sun doesn't shine," a voice from the door startled them all. Parker was standing on one leg, holding two crutches. "Take these damn things for me."

Hardison jumped to her, leading her in, to the sofa. She carefully put weight on the wrapped leg and frowned. "And, by the way, that butterfly is a message itself, not just that sentence he wrote. But it is the message for _me_, he knew I'd remember that. It's because of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and exhibition of Samurai armor three years ago, he lectured me for an hour. And I didn't even steal anything. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned going to that exhibition in front of him, because he followed me, pissed for no real reason. Like… always. And he was sulking, too, grumbling about the trouble, which I _didn't_ get into, to be precise, I was just a visitor!"

No one tried to say anything, knowing her thoughts had to be expressed in her own way, and they just waited. "There was no jewels, though." She sighed making herself comfortable. "Just armor, weapons, gear and clothes. I've noticed a butterfly on one suit of armor, I think it was the Ikeda clan, yes, they have open–winged butterflies as the insignia, and I joked about girlie Japanese… in front of the wrong person. I had to listen an entire speech about symbolism in Jap culture, something about butterflies carrying the souls of the dead, and I started to ask questions about that, and he told me, to stop me from asking more questions, that in Native American culture, butterflies have a very distinctive meaning – it's reminder to make changes when the opportunity arises," she smiled. "The message is: tell Nate that he must hit hard, without hesitation, when Villacorta's defenses fall, because there might be no other chance if he misses that opening." Then she frowned again. "Or, it might mean that the Chilean redhead chick made such a good impression on him, and he is saying something about two tragic lovers whose souls have transformed into butterflies after having committed suicide together, that's one more meaning in Japanese culture. They are strange."

"Indeed they are," Nate said quietly. "Why are you here?"

"Seriously? You thought I'd stay there? I can walk – I am slow, and it hurts and all – but we'll drive, not run all over town. What?"

"He shot you, Parker." Hardison rubbed his face with both hands.

She looked at him like she was expecting him to continue. And explain. But he said nothing more, just shook his head. "Of course he shot me. I was going to shoot him," she continued, looking at hacker, but he said nothing. "You're pissed because he shot me, and if I succeeded and shot him, stopping him, it would be okay? I don't get it." She looked at Sophie now, asking for clarification, but the grifter was of no help either. "What's the problem? Oh, you think that was one of those things that you don't do to your people? Rule number one: Do not shoot members of your team. Those sort of rules? Sorry, nobody mentioned them to me!"

"Honestly, I'm thinking of making one long list of rules, after all this ends," Nate sighed.

"What do we do now?" asked Parker.

"Rest, sit, talk, think."

"What?" she blinked. "He is out there, and he'll do those military things you said he'll do, and you also said he moved us like pieces and put us in the safe spot. He already gained an advantage. And you'll _think_?"

"That's what I do," Nate smiled. "I've told you what he has done, but I didn't tell you all of it."

"There's more?" Sophie sighed wearily.

"Yes. Mistakes. He's in bad shape. He allowed Parker to surprise him, to get to the gun, he didn't realize her voice was the comm voice with a message when she told us they were in the office, and he didn't see she called us with the phone in her pocket. Small things, but too many of them in a very short time. He's drugged, and his reactions to immediate threats are slow and wrong, though he makes no mistakes when it comes to a long term decisions and thinking. It's dangerous. And… would you please take out your comm for a second?"

Sophie raised her eyebrows but did what he had told her, took out her com and put it in a pocket. "Why?"

"Hardison, will you do the same?"

Hardison sighed but did the same she did.

"You see, all of us have an automatic reaction – when we take out our comms, we don't want them to be seen. We put them in our pockets in one move, automatically, unknowingly. That's what he did with Parker's comm when he took it from her."

Hardison's eyes widened and he jumped, but Nate stopped him. "I've already muted her earbud, he's not listening to us. I'm sure he doesn't know, or remember, that he did that. I started tracking it the moment you've left, and we have results already."

"So we know where is he?"

"For now. He'll remember what he has done very soon, I'm afraid, and destroy it. But before that, we'll be able to see his movement around town, and that can give us a glimpse of his plans. Going after him now will do no good, we'll still be one step behind. We are an hour late, remember? Hardison, what do you call when you have to calculate someone's position?"

"Triangulation, amongst other things."

"If he gives me enough time to fix and define a few solid spots on his way through town, with the papers, which, by the way, you'll have to print again, he took them, it may give me a chance to guess what he'll do, precisely. And then, we'll be _waiting_ for him at his next step."

No one said a word.

"After we talk about _if _we are going after him, of course. I didn't forget that. Now, rest while you can, or find yourself something to do, I have to think. Hardison, monitor the tracking device, and police channels. While you were in the ER, I went to check the garage on Fruit Street – the orange Toyota is gone. That will give you more chances to locate him, if you find the car on the traffic cameras."

"I'm on it." Hardison said. And didn't move, just stayed sitting with his hands on his knees, staring somewhere between Nate and Parker. Nate checked to see if there was blood left on the floor, though he was sure he cleaned it all. The last thing he needed was a hacker who would faint, now that the adrenaline had worn off, just from _remembering_ the blood that covered her leg. Nope, the hacker's gaze wasn't fixed on anything, his eyes were unfocused.

"Are you okay?" this time, the question wasn't lame.

"Nope." The quiet answer was absentminded. "I just remembered… Bonnano said that Betsy transferred the data I sent him in Middleton, onto both of his new phones, both the silver and black one. Villacorta's number was in his personal data. He didn't need _this_ phone to call him again, he'd have it on the other phone too." Hardison slowly raised his head and looked at him.

"So, why did he come here? Just because of the papers?"

"No," the hacker shook his head. "I made a mistake, again. And again, the result is one of us got shot."

"I thought we dealt with that, Hardison." Sophie interrupted him.

Nate didn't avert his gaze from the hacker. "What do you mean?"

"You were right about his plans. He probably found a way to tell Villacorta he had left the hospital, whether by calling, or some other way. While he was in that room, Villacorta knew all the time where he was, he didn't have to search for him. But now? Knowing he has left, what would be his first step? He would track the phone from which he received the call. That silver one, in our office. It would lead them directly here, in a matter of minutes. He came for the phone because he knew Villacorta will try to locate him, and find us instead."

"And your mistake in that would be…?"

"I should have thought of that, it's my job."

"Aha, and then call Eliot and tell him he doesn't have to bother coming for the phone, because you turned it off? Stop that crap. I need you focused, not in a puddle of self pity. Besides, I didn't finish with his mistakes." Nate waved the paper in his hand. "We took all of his papers; this is one from the chart. One of the oldest, from yesterday after he woke up, he was careful not to give me the list with his recent condition – but he wasn't careful enough. Among other things, visits, antibiotics, transfusions, IVs, blood pressure and regular checks, there are also short objections on his morphine symptoms – they monitored his toleration. The abbreviations are different, but some of the letters are the same, and I'll soon be able to connect the dots and have something concrete with his papers and diagrams."

"I'll start searching." Hardison sighed and got up.

"And I'll make coffee." Sophie followed him. "Parker, you need anything?"

"No. But Hardison, print those papers for me, too, I have nothing to do."

"Nate?" Sophie stopped besides him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He looked up, realizing he drifted away for a few seconds. "Penny for your thoughts," she smiled.

"Nothing…I just remembered a silly little poem. Nothing connected to this. Coffee would be great, thank you."

"I hope it's something cheerful."

"Yes, it is." he smiled, watching her walking to the coffee machine. Then he looked at the biggest of Hardison's monitors, with the Boston map and blinking dots.

_And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,  
>Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?<em>

"Cheerful indeed."


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24.

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Quiet chatter and buzzing from the police channels was a constant sound that Nate thought would distract him, but Hardison minimized the noise until it was just murmuring in the background. Hardison was the only one who actually listened to it, paying attention to both it and the other things that were playing on his monitors.

Those other things, Nate thought with a smile, for anybody else would be a complicated mess of green lines, dots, maps, real time recordings from street cameras, time calculations, routes, and a facial recognition program, all working at the same time, tracking one man and one car through a city full of people. Hardison's fingers hadn't stopped for a second, he was typing at warp nine, deep in concentration. Nate could even see from the quickly flashing images that he was working with and checking the hospital security footage.

"I've finished the first group of his papers," he announced when Hardison took a break for two seconds to drink more orange soda directly from the bottle. Sophie and Parker, lost in quiet conversation, both lifted their heads; Sophie got up and came to sit at his table. "I thought it was something that will help him in escaping the hospital, but now I'm pretty sure he wasn't worried about it at all… like we all could see, it went pretty smooth."

"Then what was he doing, if not using it for escape?" asked Sophie.

"The papers are divided into four different parts, and with diagrams at the end. And it's all about the morphine dosage, all except the fourth one, which is completely different from the others." Nate sighed. "When I figured out that one, that the repeating data was measuring of the dilating of his pupils, it wasn't hard to connect everything else, and see it's all about the morphine, but…" he bit his lower lip, thinking. "Bonnano was right when he said that Eliot's mind was not in the room. He was keeping track of all of it for this, the third night, for the things he'll do when he leaves the hospital. He was trying to find the dose that would enable him to function tonight."

This time even Hardison had stopped typing, they were listening in worried silence.

"So?" Parker asked in a small voice. "Did he find it? He seemed pretty functional when we talked."

"No, Parker, that sort of 'functioning' is not good enough, and he knows that – he was barely able to pass by you, and he knows he's a dead man if he confronts any of them in that state. I checked with the nurses when you were at the ER, he was on a double dose." Nate took a pen and underlined something on one sheet. "That double dose, checked and dismissed yesterday, as inappropriate."

"Bonnano and Betsy took the morphine pump with them, and took everything he could use." said Hardison. "What use are those calculations if the double dose was all he had?"

"Before I tell you, I'll first explain a few things… You see, he covered almost every minute of yesterday, he started as soon as Bonnano's first visit ended. He monitored every change of his condition and the symptoms, and all the effects of the drug. I managed to guess everything, except three abbreviations that are still confusing me, but this is enough. Dizziness, drowsiness, headache, pin point pupils, lightheadedness, nausea, restless mood, vomiting, everything noted on a scale from 1 to 10, in different time intervals. That plant he used to dispose of the morphine was useful for lower doses, when he monitored the decreasing in effects. Ah, yes, I forgot – the two most important notes, besides those side-effects, were about the pain, and his ability to think. He had to find the right balance that would make him function. And it didn't work."

"Didn't work at all, or didn't work in this first group that you solved?" Sophie asked carefully.

"Good question," Nate smiled. "The diagrams at the end are mainly connected to this first group. Look at those two boobs on the wall for a second… imagine that line is nausea, then add one more, for pain, below that one, one above it for dizziness, and all of the rest, at different heights… and then over that, draw another diagram, just moved ahead fifteen minutes, when he added to those symptoms, one more dose that added precisely one third of the dosage given at the time.

"What?" Sophie blinked.

"And this was just the double, simply overlapping, the most complicated one had four doses in intervals of 75 minutes, and he measured every possible combination. The results are not important, he dismissed them as well, the most important thing that it showed me, was the time interval. Don't forget, the morphine pump gave regular doses every half an hour, and Betsy checked it this morning when she took the plant from him. If all dosages were recorded as regular, how he could apply morphine four times in 75 minutes?"

"He couldn't mess with the pump programming," Hardison murmured with eyes narrowed in deep thinking.

"No, he couldn't. But he could collect it. He had to snatch a syringe from the nurses at some point, and instead giving it to the plant, collect it and shoot himself with it."

"They didn't find any syringe when they took his things." said Hardison.

"That only means he still has it. And if they missed that, we have to ask ourselves what _else_ did they miss?"

"Great," Sophie offered him a tight lipped smile.

Nate left the papers on the table, leaned back in his chair, and tented his fingertips together. "The third part of the calculations is the shortest," he continued. "According to the time notes, he started this morning, and when we track the decreasing of all the symptoms and side effects, it's clear he was cleaning himself from the morphine. Completely. He just skipped all the regular doses, one by one, hours and hours of it, until there were no traces left. Betsy was right when she said he hadn't any morphine in his blood when that attack occurred; he really was half mad when Bonnano pressed him."

"Why?" Parker whispered.

"Because he had to know. And, because he had to collect it for tonight. We are talking about a decent amount of drug, people, and he has it right now."

"Why do I have a feeling you're carefully going around the main point, Nate?" Sophie asked, worry beginning to color the patience in her voice.

"Because you have an unmistakable sense for people trying to delay the inevitable." Nate's voice went bleaker. "You saw him with Bonnano – we could see that it's impossible to function entirely without morphine, right? Now he knows that. He also knows that regular doses, even in shorter intervals, are doing no good, he dismissed it as well. So, he had one more thing to try," Nate paused, trying to think how to evince the main point. "The second group of calculations, that he did last night… the number of milliliters were multiple times larger than in the first group with regular doses. He went into an overdose."

The silence in the room took on a frigid quality.

Hardison was the first to break it, he cleared his throat.

"Parker, when you talked last night, how did he sound?" Nate continued.

"How did you know we talked?"

"He told me. When I asked him about it, he said he didn't remember much, and evaded the answer. So?"

"Much slower than usual. I knew he would be drugged so I didn't expect something else, but it was really…slow. He said he was watching TV, some horror movie with monsters."

"Did you noticed anything unusual in his answers, how was his thinking?"

"If you're asking if he said something inadequate, or wrong, or strange… no, he didn't. But it felt like he wasn't completely present. Just like when you're occupied with too many things at the same time and you sound distressed and absent when answering."

Nate sighed. "Yep, I can bet he was occupied. Check the time, tell me exactly when that call was."

"3.15 a.m." Parker said. "Why?"

Nate checked the papers and stood silent for a few seconds, then looked at the hacker. "Can you search for the symptoms, Hardison? Not the side effects of a normal usage, but the side effects of an overdose?"

"Give me a minute." The hacker turned around and started typing. During that minute no one spoke, lost in their own thoughts.

"Hell, _no_." Hardison hissed and went into litany of mumbled curses, while they patiently waited. "Central nervous system side effects may be either depressant or excitatory." he said when he was back in control of his voice. "Forget about the depressant ones, it's respiratory depression, and he would be dead if that happened. Excitatory… well, there are many of them, but, but…"

"Hardison." Nate said tiredly. "It's not the time for stuttering. Tonight, he'll use all the collected morphine to put himself into an overdose, he marked the combinations needed for that, and calculated the time intervals. I _know_ that. I need you to give me side effects of an overdose, so we know what we should expect."

Hardison swallowed, but nodded. "Psychiatric side effects include fearfulness, agitation, thinking disturbances, hyper vigilance, and… and… hallucinations, paranoia, and… psychosis."

Nate had been wrong when he thought the silence in the room was frigid just a minute ago… it was nothing compared to this frosted shock. He was also only able to stare at nothing, trying to comprehend what Hardison had just said.

Sophie's face went completely white, and he watched her as she stared at his papers. He could almost see all of Hardison's words, one by one, literally draining the color from her face, as their meaning sank in.

"So, he wasn't watching a horror movie after all." Parker whispered after an entire minute.

"Nope," Nate said, "he did not."

"And he knows exactly what he's doing?" asked Hardison wearily.

"Not only does he know, he has spent the entire night balancing it to the point that would be the most… efficient." Nate hesitated. "I honestly don't know how he can… no, not how he could do that, but how the hell he thinks he can do anything except-" he stopped himself just in time and shook his head. The tension headache _was_ a bitch. "You can't just play with stuff like that, especially in his condition, it's…" He again stopped; he had told Hardison it was not the time for stuttering, but it seemed it was only expression that was appropriate for _this_.

"You remember Nebraska, and that drugged water in the ring, Nate?" Sophie's voice was flat, empty, and quiet. "I said to Rucker that he'd took a safety off the gun, then. Perfect metaphor, isn't it?" she slowly raised her head and looked at him. "But, it's not appropriate for _this_. Now, we're dealing with a fifty ton tank, fully armed, loaded with nitroglycerine, on a slippery slope, and without brakes. Pissed off beyond any measure and in military mode. Unstoppable. And deadly. With psychosis." She took a long, shaky breath before she continued. "And most important, without any inhibitions, Nate. Do you know what that means, what he-" Now she stopped. It was a night of unfinished sentences, Nate thought watching the darkness in her eyes.

"This is too much even for his standards of over protectiveness." Sophie managed to continue. "It's totally, absolutely, bloody…gah." She waved her hand in a helpless gesture and stood up. Nate raised his eyebrows at her eloquence; seeing Sophie Deveraux in such utter loss of words was a rare experience indeed.

"What about the fourth group?" Hardison asked, and Nate knew he would be the one who would notice he skipped it. "That one with shorter entries?"

"I haven't done it yet." The lie slid from his mouth easily. He hadn't done it yet, that was true, but that was because he knew it was about his blood loss, and he didn't dare to figure out the hitter's conclusions yet.

"The most important question is…" Hardison continued, "Can we stop him _before_ he does…anything?"

Nate thought for a few seconds. "No," he said simply. "No, we can't stop him. He is going to do what he planned. Only thing that we can do is to try to be as close as possible, if he needs us."

Nobody said a word.

"So, we come to it at last…" Nate continued. "We have to decide should we, or should we not, go after him, knowing that he might do… well, there's too many possibilities, I simply can't pick one horrid enough. Parker?" he asked the thief whose head was lowered. Whips of hair were covering her eyes even when she raised her head to look at him.

"May I drive?" she simply said.

Nate had to suppress a smile. "No, you may not. I'm not saying that you can't, I know you would manage, even when your leg is in that shape, but you are not allowed to drive. Yet."

"Oh. My answer is yes. In case you're not sure."

"Thank you, Parker, I figured it out. Sophie?" Nate looked at the grifter; he was pretty sure her hair would also cover her face if it wasn't pulled back. She was still pale and stunned.

"You're actually asking, for one…criminal… to condemn a man who hasn't even committed any crimes yet, just because there is a possibility he might do …something?" she said slowly. "Basically, that's the deal here… and I'm not quite certain why you are doing this. Why, Nate?"

"That is not nearly an answer, Sophie."

"No, it is not, because, this is not the _time_ to ask for it. You can't ask for us to tell you how would we deal with the things he might do… or not. I think you're wrong, and something is deeply wrong about all this, in his behavior, in his decisions, in our expectations. In our view of all those things. And also, in our fears, Nate." She sighed, worried, and frowned. "We are missing something important in this picture, I can feel it."

"And what would it be?"

"I don't know. But I keep thinking we should give credence to him. We owe him that. I can't tell you how this will end, and how would I feel if he does something unforgivable, but until then, he is… Eliot. Ask me about it later. Now, we should go to him."

Nate kept her gaze, and then nodded.

One more. Everything was now on Hardison. He looked at the hacker, hesitating for a second.

"Hardison?"

And when he asked him, he realized he was afraid of his answer.

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Nate looked at the young man, still hunched in the chair, his eyes lowered and shuttered, and suddenly realized how young he really was, and how clean his world was. Maybe it would be better for Hardison, and for the team, to let him stay away from this, to let him go, to not put him in the situation that he had to choose. Yes, it was cruel to them, Nate knew that, but Eliot was the priority when he decided to stir them up and make them realize what could happen. Even the mere _thinking_ about their possible rejection of the man who would give everything for them was driving him mad, from the beginning. Just, now, looking at Hardison, he knew that his try to solve the crisis before it escalated, making them accept some future unspeakable massacres, in order to keep the team together and Eliot still with them, might have resulted in destroying the team more thoroughly, and on more levels. They were all already shaken and torn apart, uncertain of everything.

Hardison's silence seemed to be a clear answer.

Parker looked at Hardison as if she had just now realized that his answer might not be the same as theirs, and with every second that passed, her eyes seemed to grow bigger. Nate could almost hear the soft cracking sound of something that was breaking inside her. If this team was no longer, she would be crushed more than anyone, and he felt the anger starting to rage inside him – blind anger that he couldn't target on anything, on anybody, not even on Villacorta. He was just a pawn in this game, like all of them were; the starter was not entirely to blame for this outcome.

"So, Hardison, I guess this is your answer, then?" he asked to stop the silence that was yelling about the end.

"Answer, Nathan Ford?" the hacker said, not raising his head, and his words were slightly muffled. "No, I don't think you need an answer. Neither of us need answers, particularly not mine. No, man. No answers." He shook his head.

Nate leaned back, narrowing his eyes. Waiting for him, like he waited all this time.

Hardison slowly raised his head and looked at them, then held his eyes on Sophie and Parker, watching whatever parade of emotions was moving across their faces.

"No answers," he whispered. "You don't need them." Nate has never seen his eyes so serious, all the youth drained from his face. He looked older. And tired.

"The thing you _do_ need, however," Hardison continued, his voice back to normal. "is a lesson." He put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, looking for a moment at his hands in front of him. Then he looked at them again, and nobody said a word, nobody tried to fill his pauses.

Nobody breathed.

"I've wondered when, exactly, everything went wrong, when we did start to fall apart." His voice was soft and even. "It's not easy to tell what, or whose doings drove us here, to this room, forced to make decisions like this – to decide should we, or should we not, do something for one of us. You can't tell this is just a crisis that shook us all, so we behave irrationally because of that – no, we've had our share of crises, we knew danger, bullets, deadly enemies. We fought when the odds were against us, and won, and we stayed together no matter what. Who can tell me what's different now? Cause I've been trying to find an answer to that since this started."

Parker raised her hand.

"It was a rhetorical question, Parker. Let me speak." He shook his head again and a small, sad smile briefly lightened his face. "I asked myself, if three intense days are enough to destroy this team, is this team worth saving? At all? What bonds do we have, if three intense days can so easily tear them apart? We hide things from each other, we are working against each other, we don't trust each other anymore… and we are half mad, and pissed off, and almost broken. You all feel it, and fear it, do not try to deny that. No, the team is not worth saving."

Hardison rubbed his forehead. "Luckily for us," he continued a little softer. "we are not the team." He stood up and went across the room, to the bags in the corner; when he returned, he had a gun in his hand.

"This is the gun that I took last night when I went on the street to cover Sophie's retreat to the office," he said thoughtfully, watching the weapon, and Nate bit his lip and stopped himself from speaking. It wasn't a good time to tell Hardison to put that thing away and to not point it around aimlessly. "I was scared as shit, and had no idea of what I was doing, I just ran out on the street ready to stop anybody who would stand in my way. To kill anybody. It would be justified, wouldn't it? Of course it would. I know I would feel awful later, but Sophie would be alive. I can't stop thinking about that moment, that decision, that feeling. There was no thinking, just an instinct to protect her at any cost." He waved the gun once more, seemingly fascinated with the sparks that the light created on the metal. "It's not just Sophie… I've spent hours and hours thinking about all of this, and I figured out I would do the same for any of you. I went through all our past cases, all of them, and counted the situations in which I wouldn't hesitate to kill to protect you. I found many. Many. Man, there were few for which I'm almost sorry I wasn't there with a gun. So, we can say, freely, that I am able to kill." He lifted his eyes from the gun and looked at them, one by one. "But guess what, I didn't have a chance to do it back then, because I didn't need to do it – he was taking care of that. So we didn't have to. I'm not a killer because he is. Or was. Or will be. Or… you see, a killer who doesn't kill was stopping one possible killer from kill, by not killing. Sounds funny," he turned around and put the gun on the table, carefully pointing it at the window. And then he rubbed his hands on his trousers, as if cleaning them from that touch.

"But, he shot you, Parker," he whispered, looking at the thief. "I wouldn't, never. When I spoke to him, I told him that I didn't want him to cross the lines he put before himself, not for us." He took a deep breath before he went on. "He crossed the line. When he shot you, he definitely crossed the line, Parker… But, thinking is a bitch, you know? When you think, you often come to conclusions, you get the answers… but I don't need answers, and I've told you, you don't need answers either… because, all the answers I've got, were answers to one simple question. _Why_? What on earth could make him shoot you? And here, finally, we come to the lesson I mentioned at the beginning, lesson that we all need. A lesson in love."

And he smiled.

"I know you were all thinking I wouldn't be able to cope with the consequences of his actions, and that I've spent all this time in frightened denial. It's not denial. I'm just very selective about which reality to accept. The reality, in which you learn the lessons of love by realizing the _amount_ of love needed to shoot a friend to save her, now seems… acceptable. The reality, in which you measure the amount of love needed to fight against the friend, to save him… acceptable. The amount of love you need to gather enough strength to shoot an already wounded friend, to save him…" he looked at them, tilting his head slightly. "Do I have to continue? Am I crazy because those realities are completely normal and acceptable to me, am I really so… changed? Yes, I am changed, thank god, I've learned my lesson as well. It was about time. And I think, also, that I'm the only one here who _isn't_ in denial, the only one who knows exactly what the thing that drives us all is. Because I can admit it to myself. Hell, I can say it out loud – I love you all. You are crazy, but you are mine."

His smile became wider when he continued. "He _is_ a damn Sith Lord under a Jedi cape, but he is _mine_. And when we spoke, he said one thing he shouldn't have said, I bet you haven't noticed it, Nate – he said he is a killer. And that he didn't stop killing because he saw The Light, but because he _decided_ he didn't want to do that anymore. That alone crushed all the rest of his speech, but he is stupid enough not to notice what, exactly, he had said to me. Yeah, people, we have a Sith Lord – but his Jedi cape was not simply _given_ to him, ready to use. No, he wove that damn thing all by himself, thread after damn thread, all these years. He left it. Tore it, and left it behind," his voice went quieter, and he took a deep breath, again glancing at his hands, as if the rest of his words was written on his skin.

"We are going to give it back to him." It wasn't a suggestion, it was a mere fact, said with a calm, steady voice. "I said I was ready to kill to save any of you – now we have the one that needs saving. If I have to kill to save him, I'll do it. And I don't know what we're waiting for."


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

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Lucille was covered with green ribbons and tiny silver bells. On the roof of the van Hardison placed two large speakers to look like two flowers, one pink and one yellow, with huge plastic petals.

He seemed extremely proud of his creation, and he took their wordless staring as a sign of their awe. No one had a heart to say… anything.

Parker insisted on bringing the bag with the weapons, and surprisingly, Sophie supported her, so there was nothing left to argue about – the bag that would be a treasure for any police inspection of the crazy van was placed securely beneath the driver's seat. Hardison needed almost fifteen minutes to connect the spare monitors in the van, he took every one from the office, and the inside of the van was full of cables that were spreading all over the place, like a net of laser beams that had to be avoided. In the back of the van Sophie made a nest for Parker, with blankets and pillows, to make the thief as comfortable as possible. Parker was pale and looked tired, and they all knew she was in pain, but they had to let her climb down all by herself.

Nate didn't ask if she had been given any analgesics, he knew she probably refused them.

"I'm driving," Sophie opened the driver's door. "Hardison will be busy with his screens, and you'll be busy staring into them. Buckle up!"

"I don't want to see that office ever again," Hardison sighed, turning the monitors on. "The delivery service I used works 24 hours a day, so if we need the rest of the stuff I'll arrange it."

"Some of the stuff was intentionally forgotten," Nate said, putting the chestnut wig on Parker's head, causing a grumpy murmur from the thief. "Hardison, is now the best time to ask how you think the van decorated with the leftovers of St. Patrick day would be _invisible_ in traffic? Being invisible was the main point, if I remember correctly."

"Not invisible to everyone, invisible to the Chileans that will search for Lucille. A Lucille that should drive carefully, be quiet and avoid busy streets, and all of that?" Hardison grinned, pressing buttons, and the speakers above their heads started to howl a commercial for a car wash with a ten percent discount, in a cheerful voice along with a music. "Trust me, no one would think that's Lucille, and we can go wherever we want, and park in front of fifty Chileans if we want to. And now, get in, we're ready to leave."

"Nate," Sophie said when he closed the door and she started the engine, taking them onto the street. "Look in the cabinet where we put the pillows, please."

He bent under two cables to reach the lower cabinet. Tucked in a blanket, there was a small oxygen tank with a mask attached to it. He caught Sophie's eyes in the mirror and nodded, remembering her escape from the Chileans the previous night, and her putting it and the crutches in the van. One pair was still on the floor, along with Parker's pair.

"If you're done checking the inventory, come here," Hardison called and Nate turned his chair to face the monitors. "He made a pretty good route by now. I marked all the relevant spots on the map with green dots. The orange ones are the results from street cameras, and basically, every camera I could find and hack. The images you can even make out – this one, for example, that orange flash is the Toyota passing by a cash machine with a decent camera on it. Unfortunately, the last half an hour, the Toyota is simply gone. Maybe he left it somewhere, because he didn't stop, he's still moving. Sophie, it's only twenty minutes from us, step on it. We can get close, maybe even intercept him in time. I really, really, _really_ don't want to learn what is the thing worse than murdering of a man."

"No." The voice from the back of the van was quiet, but amazingly clear. Parker said just the one word, and Nate and Hardison turned to her.

"You said we can't stop him, and that we can only be close if he needs us," she said with an even voice. "Before we do that, before we get closer… we have to do one thing first. We have to call him and tell him that shooting me was something that can't be forgiven, ever, and that we are leaving."

"What?" Hardison croaked. "_Why_?"

"Nate, if you want him alive, you'll do it." Parker completely ignored Hardison's question, she stared directly into his eyes. "I can crack any safe, but not if I'm cracking another one at the same time. Or even thinking about combinations of the other one. We are now just one more side that he must fight, one more opponent, a distraction that can kill him."

"She's right," Sophie said. "That way he could concentrate on the Chileans only, and not waste his time on thinking about our steps."

"He wouldn't believe us," Nate said. "Would you?"

"No, I wouldn't," Sophie sighed. "I would try to find the hidden reason behind it, and probably waste even more time than before. But, remember his speech to Hardison. He even shot Parker. He _wants_ us to leave him and go away, and if we give him _that_, he'll buy it. And if anyone here can do it, it's me."

"Okay, I admit, that might be useful," said Hardison. "Not only will he be concentrated only on the Chileans, and not on us, it will also give us a little advantage. If you call him, and tell him… well, that after all he has said and done, he's dead to us… we might get close to him, because he won't think he has to hide from us any more. He will literally turn his back to us and face the Chileans... and that's maybe our only chance to get close to him."

"If he… do you really want _that_ to be the last…" Nate cut off his words, but the damage was already done, they all knew what he was trying to say.

"If he's expecting us to come for him, he'll waste his time trying to prevent it." Parker's voice was empty of any feeling. "I don't know what he can do at all, with all those things Hardison listed, but one less thing to worry about, and to fight, would help him. The time he spends on stopping or evading us, he can spend on the Chileans. You should call him, Nate."

Yes, he should. But he realized he couldn't. He simply couldn't do it.

"Nate…" Sophie's eyes were watchful and narrowed as she studied him in the mirror. Two eyes was all that he could see of her, and that intensified her gaze even more."Remember what you told me in that café, when I was whining about how we should grab him and run, when I accused you of being an insensitive son of a bitch… amongst other things? You said that you were not nearly cruel enough. The Nate from the café wouldn't think twice about taking that phone and calling, he would know it's wise and necessary. In the mean time, the situation has escalated to a level we never imagined it could, and now, knowing all that, knowing what's at stake, you _hesitate_. What changed, Nate? What happened between that, and this conversation?"

The grifter's stare never left his eyes, but he didn't blink, just smiled. How the hell she was driving?

"When we came to the hospital," he said, "when I've told you who our real mark was, I also told you we couldn't do anything until we saw what his moves would be. After we saw them, I could think about stopping Villacorta and of all our actions, because before that, any move we made could endanger Eliot's. Yes, the situation escalated, and I decided to stop him from doing this, for his sake – he is too weak for this. Don't be fooled by that overdose, it's merely fuel – but his engine is still broken. What changed? I don't know, Sophie. Maybe this time I don't, won't let him die for us, when it can be avoided."

"This time?" she quietly asked.

"Just a figure of speech."

"Yet, he is out there now, and doing things he is not supposed to be able to do, and you refuse to do something that would help him avoid dying… and you smoothly went around my main question: 'What happened in the mean time'?" she sighed when he gave her no response. "There is one more thing, now, when you've already mentioned _dying,_" she continued thoughtfully, her voice quiet. "Let me repeat the words you said when we were going back to that warehouse, when all this started: 'He might die thinking we are safe; and he did all of this just for that– or he might die knowing we are coming for him, and that he failed in everything he did. What would _you_ chose for Eliot, Nate? It's the same situation, the same dilemma, but this time it's even more important, because the correct response may _help_ him to live through this, not just ease his worries."

They all recognized those words, Hardison visibly flinched. "It's not the same situation, Soph," the hacker said. "He is walking and doing things, not just waiting to see if the paramedics would come on time."

Hardison had no idea how much he was wrong, about everything… this time there were no paramedics on their way, no Bonnano and cops, no cavalry that would come in time. Besides them. And they were late, and far away.

"You're right," Nate said slowly. "It is the right thing to do. But one of you must do it. Not me."

Sophie sighed. "You're not telling us everything." she said with her best We Shall Talk voice. Not only she was driving with her eyes fixed only on the rearview mirror, she was also dialing the phone as she spoke.

"He's not answering." she said after fifteen seconds.

Yes, he should have told them about Eliot's numbered hours, and that they were in a race with death, and at some point of this night he would probably do it – but not now, not when they were finally doing something. Their strive was for now colored with hope, not fear, and it was better for them if that feeling was prolonged.

He could handle the fearing part all by himself.

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Eliot stared at the lit avenue until his eyes hurt and started to burn, pulsing to the rhythm of a song that played in a nearby cafe; something Irish, and wild. It went perfectly with his heart beat, quick, too quick, and shallow. One beat of the music, one heartbeat, connected.

'You thought you could hide from the mess that you made  
>All the promises broken, your best plans relayed'<p>

He smiled.

He watched in fascination as flames started to engulf the orange Toyota; the music was so loud that it covered the sound of many smaller explosions.

The ringing of his phone sent electric blue flashes before his eyes, and Eliot closed his eyes for a moment, because the blue mixed with the flames that he was watching. Red flames, orange car, blue lights… too many bright colors hurt his eyes even more, everything was still blurred. He had to wait longer.

He took a few steps back from the crowd that was watching the explosion; people had poured from the café on the street, alarmed and scared. He reached the darkest shadows, just slightly brightened with colored reflections, and checked the phone.

Sophie was calling him.

Smart move. The King unleashed the Queen and the most powerful weapon of hers, but this strike would miss. He let the phone ring. He couldn't let her speak. Not now.

The damn board was dangerous enough even without his own crew to wander aimlessly around, and in this phase they were more dangerous than Villacorta. Villacorta was far away, on the other side of the board, surrounded by his own pieces, his army of pawns, and to get to him, Eliot had to be a step ahead of everybody. Especially his own team. The Knight had jumped him and almost stopped him; damn her swift, unpredictable moves; one could never know from where she would materialize, what obstacles she's jump over to get to the target. The Bishop was covering the board and every diagonal in search of him; he could reach him no matter how distant he seemed – once Eliot stepped on the fields that he covered and monitored, he would be caught. Avoiding his traps and minefields would be even harder than evading The Knight. And the Queen… damn, she didn't even have to speak to him, it was enough to know what she _would _tell him; he knew it, and he had to use all his strength not to allow himself to let her warm, gentle whisper enter his mind.

For a moment everything went white and black, and squares danced before his eyes; he turned around to see the distant figure behind his back. He felt his presence, he could feel his mind in every move other pieces had made, but the King was silent and closed. The King might be far away in the background, but he was the only one who could stop him.

A smaller explosion finished the orange car and crowd dispersed in fear, and that brought back the colors, pulling him out of the chess board, into the street again. The lights and music returned as well, mixed with the howling of Police and ambulance sirens. Firefighters were already there. They would add more blue and red colors and lighten the avenue even more.

'So you travel in circles, and that much is fine  
>But trouble will follow ya into the brine'<p>

Boston was brewing, the streets were full of people – weekend nights kept them out till dawn. Tonight, the atmosphere would be much wilder than everyone expected. The avenue that he was watching was already looking like a river of fire, the burning car causing a traffic jam. He tried to smile again, but the trembling made it impossible; he had to wait a few more minutes before the new dose of morphine mixed with the last, and pushed him to the level he had carefully calculated. Timing was everything. He checked his new watch to see how many minutes he needed, noticing already that the blurring of his eyes was gone, and world once again became sharp… painfully, coldly sharp.

He waited; a dark shadow in the background.

'And sooner or later a ship comes ashore  
>It's here I can bet ya just wanted more<br>And you find there's nothing left to begin  
>And you can't go home again'<p>

That song was driving him crazy, and lights before his eyes became redder. No, he couldn't go home again. They would never forgive him for what he was going to do. They would never understand all the death, all the blood, all the chaos he was going to unleash. But this was the only way. His way.

He had all night, he had all the time in the world. Seven hours until the dawn.

The wrath was getting stronger, and the calm inner voice was curled in the corner of his mind, with its hands covering its ears to stop the noise, trying to gather itself again, to remind him of the things that had to be done. And _how_ those things had to be done.

He checked the time again, scanned the crowd, and stepped out of the shadows. Walking was easy now, though he couldn't feel the ground correctly because of the constant feeling of a removed axis, but it wasn't visible and it didn't affect his speed. He had to remind himself that he had to use his left arm and spare the right as much as he could – there was no pain except a deep seated warmth, but that hole in his chest didn't disappear.

When he waved to a taxi, it was a slow, relaxed move. One car stopped beside him, avoiding the long row of stopped ones, and he nodded the driver to lower the window. A blonde, long haired man checked his suit and obeyed, and he came closer, within the reach of the car.

"What can I- fuck!" the man swore and quickly closed the window. "Find another cab, pal!"

Eliot just smiled – in this light, his eyes must have been a pretty terrifying thing to look at, light, bloodshot, and with pin point pupils – but Parker's earbud was now traveling across town in the taxi, constantly moving, drawing the team away from him and his doings. He was pretty certain they would stay in the hospital, but he couldn't be sure. Every option was open – they might be in Mass Gen, they might even decide to leave town after he shot Parker. For a moment he had problems remembering all of his conclusions, the triple lying, he couldn't remember the last thing that had happened at all… the whole hospital mess now seemed so distant and foggy. He had to remind himself of what he had told Hardison; after that he had shot Parker; no, there was not any chance they were still looking for him. Nate was the only problem, it was possible that he understood the situation completely, but Nate wouldn't risk the team for him.

Eliot returned to his shadow and scanned the crowd once more. Police were securing the site, the yellow stripes were already in position. There was a small, round parking lot only fifty meters away from the last yellow stripe – he had measured well. There was no point in damaging his new car.

The phone rang again. This time, the lights that sliced through his head were orange.

"Yeah, Patrick, what can I do for ya?" he listened to his own voice as he spoke, finding it calm, clear and steady. It was good; he wasn't sure if he would be able to speak at all.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

The wrath grew in a second, almost making him throw the phone against the wall – _kill him, kill that son of a bitch, kill him_ – it took almost five seconds to stop that urge, to be able to shut up the drugged maniac that was raging inside his head. No, it was Patrick – he made a mental note to add Bonnano to the group 'don't kill, keep safe' - and remembered that he was waiting for the answer. Last night he managed to separate the effects of the drugs and he knew exactly what was him, and what the morphine was doing to him, but now it was more difficult. He concentrated, bringing himself back to reality, and chose the Commander to talk to Bonnano. He seemed the least affected, he kept himself in the background, monitoring, thinking and waiting. He knew that there was nothing to be mad about in Patrick's words.

"Walking. It's a nice evening. Though, it smells like rain is possible in some part of the night," he politely said, satisfied with the control of the mad rage that was still howling inside. However, he wasn't satisfied with the time needed to analyze the wrath, to decide if it was real or just the drug, to control it, and to think of what to say. He sounded like moron; he could only hope that it would go easier with practice. _Or maybe it would become harder to control it, and in the end, impossible_. "And what are you doing?"

"Listen, Eliot…" Patrick hesitated, which wasn't a surprise at all. What was he supposed to say in this situation? "Betsy will be pissed." Damn, _that_ was the result of his thinking? He almost laughed, but he couldn't allow himself that, not yet. He wasn't sure if he would be able to stop.

"Don't try to keep me on the line to locate me, just call your patrol 6141, I'm watching their party right now. And relax." He glanced at the crowd and the police. "You did everything you could, Patrick, and more than that, and now it's time to stop. There's nothing you can do, not anymore."

Patrick's mumbled curse showed him that Patrick recognized his own words from the hospital room, but he had no idea why he chose to say it. Except because it was true. Hah, maybe he had just solved his problems with coherent speech – he might use the complete sentences that he remembered from the past few days.

"Eliot. Don't. Kill. Anybody."

"Why not?" He frowned when he heard what he said. It was not the time for statements like that, not to a State Police officer. "Just kidding. Of course I won't. I needed some air, that's why I'm out. Walking."

He watched the policeman that was still in the car, and started counting.

Patrick was saying something, but he had lost track of his words. "Patrick… one more thing," he stopped him. "Stay home tonight. Don't go on the streets. Please" he added at the last moment. "It will be really rain tonight, I don't want you to get wet."

The policeman in the car reached for his microphone, answering a call. Damn, Patrick was already at his station; someone beside him called the patrol and warned them, while Patrick continued to talk to him. That wasn't good.

Eliot ended the call, cutting Patrick's last word in half, and thought about throwing the phone at the remains of the burning car. No, not yet. First he had to buy a few more phones.

Tracking him would do no good to anyone. Nor it would change anything.

He was glad he could still feel bad for of Patrick; he didn't deserve to be deceived and misguided. Eliot knew that the only way to make Bonnano think what he needed him to think was to push him to make his own conclusions. When he fed him all that bullshit about Occam's Razor, the simplest and the shortest way from A to B, Patrick _had_ to think that he was going to murder Villacorta, that was the only conclusion he could draw from it. Precisely what he wanted him to think. And he held onto it so strongly that it became a fact in his head. A fact that he probably transferred to the team, as well. Everything that would keep them all away from his doings was useful, and Occam's Razor, having nothing to do with his plan, was perfect as a decoy. Patrick was a dangerous cop – if he wasn't fed with something that fit in his way of thinking, he would soon get too close, too near to the truth. He had been _deadly_ close at one point. They were all forgetting that a dead Villacorta would be just as dangerous as Villacorta in prison, especially if it was known that Eliot Spencer killed him; that would only intensify the search for them. Nothing would be solved.

Occam's Razor as a principle was futile in this case – and Bonnano had no idea he was de facto merely talking about a tool; dull, broken, out of function… a tool that needed sharpening, its blade re-forged.

He smiled again, watching the two cops that had started to scan the crowd. He was in deep shadow, they couldn't see him in his black clothes.

He had one more thing to do before he made his first move; the team had to be warned to stay away from all of this, to stay away from the streets. Killed by a hit, or merely sucked into destruction… it made no difference. He took all the phones and looked at them, trying to concentrate and decide which one to use. The cheap one that they couldn't track; the silver that was now disconnected – _nope, the silver one had to remain disconnected for now _– or the black one, that was traceable? If he used the black one, Hardison would be able to find him if he didn't turn it off after they spoke… but that might prove to be an advantage later, not a problem. The black phone could send them where he wanted them to be, if they got too close to danger. He put away the first two, and took the black one to call. For the moment he couldn't even remember on which one he spoke to Bonnano.

He managed to stop himself at the last second. _Wrong move_. He wasn't thinking - okay, he _was_ thinking, but it was a shitty performance for now – he had ditched them, he shot Parker, and he couldn't call them, worried, and warn them about the danger. He had to stay focused and remember that he didn't care anymore what would happen to them. He had said something like that to Hardison, but he wasn't sure if those were the exact words; in his blurred memory that sounded much, much worse.

The rage that he was feeling now was his, completely, it had nothing to do with the drugs. He was mad at himself, and his inability to line up things in the right order. _Focus, Spencer_.

He was alone here, the team was the past – no more calling, no more warnings, no more thinking about them, or he would ruin everything he had done so far. He _had_ to erase them completely from his mind. _But he couldn't_.

He put away the phones, and checked the time again. The ambulance was gone as soon as they saw there was no victims of the explosion. One cop was rearranging the traffic to go around the burning car, now partially covered in white foam. The crowd was still there. Many that left were replaced with new people; the advantage of burning the car in the big avenue, in a lit, busy, noisy part of the city with a constant flow of passersby. Those who left were not interesting… he was watching those who were coming.

Pain was just a dull memory throbbing deep in his side; he smiled as the city lights started to pulse in the rhythm that was following his heartbeats and the music; the world was no longer a blurred, gray mess of shadows. Every single city light became a sharp needle, every shadow outlined and clear. The edges of the world were lined in thin silver and fire.

His eyes burned as he watched a tall, dark haired man who stopped on his way to his parked car and came closer to the crowd to see the burning wreck; in the flickering lights he could clearly see the recognition when the man saw the orange Toyota, and the questions that started to form in his head.

'It's the dance of a madman, until his heart stops  
>It's the voices of angels chained to the rocks<br>It's what's stored up my sleeve, it's the thrill of the spin  
>It's the heaven and hell that I'm livin' in'<p>

He stepped out of the shadow.

The two cops that were searching through the crowd were on the opposite side for now, and he slowly went after the man who turned around and went into a small parking lot. It was much darker than the avenue, lit only by one lamp at the distant end, and his car was parked more than fifty meters from the light. He was talking to someone on the phone, frantically waving with the hand with the car keys in it, but he didn't turn around, didn't notice the shadow that walked behind him.

They were not alone.

Eliot was certain that the hallucinations would take the same form like those from the second night, monsters and abominated shapes of known objects, but those that were emerging from the night were more dangerous; silent, gray shadows, normal, plain, _real_. It would be very hard to distinguish them from real people in the next couple of hours. They brought the fear along, cold, deep fear.

'When you find there's nothing left to begin  
>You can't go home again<br>No you can't go home again'

Eliot waited until the man put the phone in his pocket, and unlocked the dark chocolate Hummer. When he opened the door, a shadow flickered on the door, and he slowly turned around.

The gray shadows flinched and dispersed in the background, disappearing for a moment in the darkness. Eliot smiled. Sweetly.

'_Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of the death, I will fear no evil…_

… _for the shadow is mine_.'

The razor was ready to slice the web.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

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Nate knew something was wrong when the green dots disappeared into the Callahan tunnel for the second time in half an hour. The first time it happened they were very close, Sophie managed to keep them only five minutes behind the dot – but then the dot entered the Logan Airport. Hardison had nine different theories about what Eliot might do at the airport, but before they found a place to stop, the dot left and returned to the city.

So they went after it, again.

Sophie was driving through the dense traffic keeping their distance to less than five minutes, and Hardison specially marked every point where the dot stopped. It was never more than a minute, it seemed that Eliot was just driving up and down the town, doing absolutely nothing.

But then, he entered that damn tunnel again, and Nate buried his face in his hand, with an exasperated sigh. "Hardison," he said. "I need you to check something… will you please draw the route he's made so far, in a line, and not just dots?"

"Just a sec." Hardison quickly typed something, and a green line spread all over the map, like a giant, multi-rayed star.

"Now, take away the blank map, and put something touristic on it… restaurants, hotels, motels, that sort of things."

"I have no idea what…" Hardison did it while he was speaking, and the map blinked, cutting off his words. "Wow, this is interesting." He pointed to the end of three different rays. "Three hotels on the ends of the points, after them he turned back… these are also points where he stopped for a minute…." his voice trailed off and he cursed under his breath. "He sent us after a fucking taxi!"

"Yep. The usual route… airport, then hotels. Busy night, streets are full. We have to find the exact place where he planted Parker's earbud in that cab, and dismiss everything after that point."

"I have the exact time when he entered the airport the last time, I'll find it on the cameras, and we'll have the cab company. But it will take some time, there'll be many of them at the same time, we'll have to call everyone. Gimme a few minutes."

"What now?" Sophie asked from the front seat. "Where am I supposed to drive?"

"Just continue with this route for now. Hardison, give me the last recorded location the Toyota before-" the ringing of his phone cut him off. "Yeah, Patrick, speak." He listened for some time. "Okay, Patrick, thank you. Hardison, scratch that, the last known location was in Columbus avenue. He-"

"Burned it?" Parker asked.

"How-"

"Police channels – it was just a short call, the code for a traffic accident, a burning car, Columbus avenue – they reported no victims and nothing connected to weapons, so it didn't sound important. Sophie is driving, you two have screens to look at, and I can only listen to what's happening."

"You know all the police codes?"

"Of course I do, since I was ten."

"Okay, continue, concentrate on that, and warn us if anything sounds suspicious. Hardison, give her some headphones so she can listen to the police channel. It will be useful if you give her 911 calls to monitor as well. Sophie, take us to that address. I'll start to call taxi companies and find that driver."

"Why?"

"I want to talk to him and see if he remembers Eliot and what he looked like. We can easily search for a man in a black suit, while he walks around in a yellow T-shirt."

"Tonight is too cold for-" Hardison stopped and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, right, I know what you mean. Never mind."

Nate looked at him better. "And how many hours, exactly, did you sleep last night?"

Hardison looked guilty for a second. "I had set the alarm to wake me at 4 a.m. I was busy."

"With what? We were all sleeping, the cops were in Eliot's corridor around that dead guy-"

"With throwing up, okay?" Hardison snarled. "And I was studying something in the hospital security footage, to save time later. It will be important only if everything goes all right, not now. Just… let it go."

"We'll stop somewhere to get coffee," Nate sighed, deciding not to press him. He just wondered what would happen when all of them started to reveal everything they'd hid from each other. Would it be a flood or an explosion?

Whatever. Lucille would survive it.

.

.

.

Great. The Commander, finally, lost all his nerves too, irritated by the Hitter whose constant urging to hurry everything up annoyed everyone. It wasn't easy to drive with one hand and a fight going on in his head, hell, it wasn't easy to drive at all, with the street that was wriggling, and traffic lights becoming all pink at the same time, right in the moment when he needed to decide if he should stop on the red light or continue. He was driving the Hummer slowly, under the speed limits, knowing he would be in trouble if cops stopped him and took just one look at his eyes.

"Stop talking, you idiots," Eliot said checking the GPS; _damn thing was pink as well_. His interfering with their quarrel just made the Retrieval Specialist engage and take the Hitter's side, and Eliot hit the brakes at the last moment, avoiding the truck that stopped on the crossing. He had a three second delay in every reaction, and the chatter in his head distracted him even more. The curse the Commander hissed was completely new, he had never heard it before, and that pushed him into decently worried thinking about the crazy group in his head. His inner voices were collecting new curses without him knowing it, Jesus, soon they'd start to teach him who knows what.

He was surprised with his driving skills, it went easier than walking. As long as he was able to stop the mad reactions to the other driver's moves in the traffic – all of their moves, and their mere presence on the road – he would be able to drive wherever he wanted. At least he was sitting and that could be considered almost like resting. The main problem with this overdose was that it couldn't annul his general weakness, just the pain. He could think he could do anything, and his brain was trying to convince him of that very stubbornly, but because of the blood loss he was on the constant verge of passing out. Monitoring that, and figuring out his true condition and abilities under the influence of the drugs would be constant struggle. If he forgot for just one second that he was barely standing, deceived by the false signals from his drugged brain, and overdid even the smallest move or reaction, he would go down hard.

"There is one thing, though, that's confusing me," he said, turning his head to the passenger seat, slowly, trying not to stir up the sleeping nausea, to the crumpled man who was sitting with his back almost leaning on the door. "You're supposed to be the toughest of Villacorta's little soldiers, aren't you, Alejandro?"

The pale face, never leaving his every move, went into a gray shadow when he spoke and looked at him. It was a shame to see such a bad guy turned into heap of shaking limbs, and Villacorta's first lieutenant was _the_ bad guy. According to Hardison's files, this man was in charge of all the minor gangs Chileans swallowed and annexed in Boston; he also dealt with the threats from their competition, clearing the way for the Chileans to grow and spread out even more. He wasn't just sending others to do the dirty jobs, he led the way, never afraid of death and shooting. But he was afraid now.

Eliot had done nothing, he _really_ had done nothing to him. He just politely asked him to accompany him on the ride. He was smiling the entire time, for Christ's sake!

Eliot smiled again, just to test a theory, and the man made a low, whimpering sound. _The Hitter chuckled with a sinister grin_. Yep, he should know it was all his fault, he scared him. He let him to see all the craziness combined from those three days, and all the madness that was about to be unleashed.

"I said, stop talking," he growled, and Alejandro froze. "Not you! I was not talking to you. Just… shut up, all of you, damn it!" The Hitter rolled his eyes, The Specialist carefully tried to tell him what effect his words had on the man, and the Commander just facepalmed. Eliot sighed and closed his eyes for a second, hoping that darkness would quiet them all, like parrots in a cage when someone covered them with a blanket.

It didn't work. He found himself smiling at Alejandro again, without knowing he was doing it – the sneaky Hitter had silently taken over, in that moment of darkness.

_Rule number one: Don't let the Hitter to feed on the darkness._

Okay, _that_ was disturbing. He restrained himself from looking in the rear mirror to see what was wrong with his smile; he was kind, calm, polite, relaxed, and he couldn't figure out why those feelings weren't transferred to his passenger. He needed him for some time, alive and functioning, and upsetting him further wasn't a good idea, but he couldn't stop smiling.

"If I knew that story about the original Florence recipes would upset you this much, I would have kept my mouth shut. You should've told me you're not interested, ya' know?"

Alejandro's face went green, and his eyes became even more desperate. Eliot eyed him, knowing that desperation led to irrational behavior; _seriously?_ - but he was far away from any ideas about attacking him or something. Maybe it was because the suspicion he planted in Villacorta's mind last night took root, confirmed further by the Lady Killer's report from this evening; if Villacorta's men believed he wasn't shot at all, they would think twice about attacking him.

The Hitter wasn't satisfied with that, he had spent half an hour explaining how stupid it was to make an opponent try harder to knock you down, but in the end, he had to agree with the Commander: deceiving the enemy was the key to victory. Eliot couldn't make himself weaker than he was, but he could do opposite, and confuse them on several levels. Any decision based on the wrong info was useful for them. For him, he corrected himself.

Alejandro crumpled even more, keeping the distance. Whether he thought Eliot was in full health, or not, that _was_ a strange behavior; the madman's eyes shouldn't have scared him that much. Hell, as far as he could tell, maybe that guy wasn't even there, maybe he was talking to a monster dressed in Armani, and the real owner of the Hummer was left behind in that parking lot in seven pieces. _Why seven?_

He slowly reached with his right hand – sudden movements, no matter that he couldn't feel the pain, were strictly forbidden - and pinched the man's cheek.

"Ha. Meat. You _are_ real." He was satisfied, which led to more smiling, more smiling led to more whimpering noises from his new friend, which made the hitter happy and smiling, and it was a vicious circle he didn't know how to break. He tried to make a comfortable and relaxed atmosphere, but it seemed the guy would be happier if he put him in the trunk. Cargo space, he corrected himself; Hummers didn't have trunks. _Nope, no enough room for him_.

Well, they were almost there.

"You know what's bothering me the most about this night?" he sighed, worried again. "I forgot to tell Betsy to take care of George. He might die."

.

.

.

"The problem with the bulletproof windshields, and armored cars is, as you guessed already, that you can't escape once you're locked in it," Eliot said to his passenger when he stopped the Hummer.

"If you want to kill me, why are you driving me around?" Those were the first words Alejandro said.

"I have no intention to kill you. If you are clever and lucky, and just smile and keep quiet, you might live. Your chances are not great, though, I won't lie to you… but it's possible. But, do anything except smile, and I'll kill you without a second thought."

Eliot put all Alejandro's useful things in his pockets – one more phone, one more gun, cash, IDs - in hour or two he'd need a damn bag just for the phones – checked the vehicle for spare keys, climbed out and locked his prisoner in the armored fortress on wheels. "Over protection is a bitch," he murmured checking the shadows in the street. Maybe he shouldn't say that, because the Commander used the opportunity and went into a litany about over protection, which raised the Hitter on his back legs. Yeah, strange. Those two obviously had many unsolved issues, Eliot thought while checking his phones. Again. Every damn time he had to use one of the phones, he had to repeat to himself which one was for what and why, unable to remember. He picked the silver one, and turned it on. This time, he let the Hitter smile as much as he wanted.

He stepped onto the street towards his target, and almost instantly realized the mistake – he did it with his usual, quick steps. Only three were enough to send him staggering, and black dots, no, gray dots in this darkness, covered everything before his eyes. He barely managed to reach some kind of wall, and lean on it to rest and wait for his vision to clear. He had been sitting too long, and moved too fast, and his heart couldn't send already the too little blood everywhere that was needed. Damn buzzing.

_Rule number two: do not listen when the morphine starts to whisper about invincibility._

He observed a lit sign on the door from the distance, waited a few more minutes, and went around the building, slowly, carefully, listening to his breathing and heartbeat. It should tell him how he was doing, not the stupid brain who was trying to push him into running quickly.

When he was there the last time, his scanning of the surroundings was superficial, but now he needed to find all the escape routes, back entrances, and most of all, the number of back rooms. And windows, he shouldn't forget the windows, just in case, though he couldn't imagine jumping from any. He was very satisfied when he succeeded in keeping that thought, without his drugged brain going into persuasion. His own brain was trying to kill him, apparently.

And if he let it take over, it would succeed. No jumping from the windows. Rule number two should constantly be in force.

The dirty back street, filled with trash and boxes, was completely dark, but Eliot had to walk through it, to see any hidden obstacles in his way. Running from here, _no, brain, slow retreat, no running_, would be dangerous enough even without falling.

The pale shadows chose that moment to return and gather at the edges of his vision, but their whispers, fortunately, were quieter than the music that was coming through the back door. Anyway, he knew what they would tell him. He decided to call them zombies, although they were too normal for that; it was easier to think of them as monsters, and not what they really were. He _really_ missed the butterflies.

More than ten minutes had passed while he was investigating the surroundings, and it was time to speed things up a little. This time, timing was out of his control, and he had to rely on pure luck.

He went back to the front street, checked the pulse that was speeding, but not alarmingly, and stopped himself in front of the door of Marco's Tavern.

Mexican Cartel Inc. Headquarters.

Just three weeks had passed since Hardison knocked down the same bouncer that was now looking at him, and Eliot thought about this man's bad luck. This night was not the night to work here again, definitely.

He stopped directly in front of him, and let the Hitter smile. "I shall say this only once," he said slowly. "If you want to live, go home. Now. And never come back." Then, he waited, saying no more.

The guy stared at him for five seconds. On sixth second he turned around and went down the street.

Good.

Eliot checked the time again, took the gun from his belt, and went in. He took just one step inside and looked around. The bar was crowded, which wasn't good. Damn weekend. He needed the clear scene, not a bar full of innocent bystanders. He shot one bullet into the ceiling, stopping all conversation immediately, and waved the gun to the waiters behind the desk.

"All guests, out!" he didn't need to shout, every word was clear in the silence. "At the back door. Now!" Pointing the gun at the tables hastened their exit a little. "All the staff, too. The bar is closed for tonight. Go home!"

The bartenders and waiters waited for the sign from the group that was still sitting, and after one of them nodded, they too went after the guests, leaving the bar. Eliot counted the rest that stayed still, three big tables were occupied, and four more men at the bar. Nineteen left.

"Now, we shall talk," Eliot said and put away his gun. "You owe me a few answers."

"What is the question?" a calm voice asked, from the third table. They were all calm.

"I wanna know, Mexicans, why you are trying to kill me," he drawled.

.

.

.

His monologue about traditional Florence cuisine had been practice and a test. He had to be sure about every word he said from now on, because one wrong word, or even a gesture, could ruin everything. Alejandro endured it stoically, he even tried to look interested, so that meant his speech made sense. Alejandro lost it only when the voices took over and started to argue, so Eliot had to speak with them and abandon his recipes.

He didn't have the main role in this play that was about to begin, he was merely a prompter – but those words he would whisper to the main characters could change the script entirely. _What a joy_.

He watched the nineteen Mexicans, trying to recognize if any of the faces belonged to the group that he had fought the last time; two of them, both at the table with the one who spoke, but he couldn't be sure. No, three, he changed his mind when one man who was sitting at the bar spoke.

"This one came with that dirty cop who put Cortez in jail," the man said. "If we were not trying to kill him before, we should think of it now."

"_This one_," Eliot repeated slowly, "was just released from custody today, because he was arrested _with_ your Cortez that night. My partner is still behind bars, they had much more on his head. Maybe I should consider killing you all, for a change? Shut up. Who is here in charge now?"

"I am," a young man from the third table nodded. "Cortez's time is over."

Thank god, this one wasn't in a suit; he thought he would feel sick if he saw one more gang member in fancy clothes. This one had a plain white shirt with a jacket, and he wore jeans. His tattoos were showing his slow, but steady progress through the cartel, up to the top. He might not be very experienced, but his orders were obeyed, and that was important.

"Why would a man come alone to the gang who he thinks wants to kill him?" Good, he wasn't stupid either. "Except you're drugged to the bone and probably have no idea how big the trouble you got yourself into is?" _And_ perceptive.

"Those few weeks in jail were long," Eliot smiled and come closer, letting the men at the bar close behind his back. They had to know he was not a threat. For now, they were just interested in the unusual game. "And the first thing that I met when I was released, was a Mexican killer who tried to kill me. After that, a man needs a little relaxing, don't you think?"

"We are not trying to kill you. Cortez made a mistake and got too greedy, and he was busted – shit happens. We knew it had something with two dirty cops, a courier and the Irish, but as far as we are concerned, Cortez naively got himself, and a few good men, into trouble. The Mexicans are strong, and we are many, and that loss is nothing big. But, now that you are here, we may rethink your part in it."

"You're lying," Eliot simply said. "You framed me and my partner, and the Irish, maybe even Cortez – that ambush that the State Police made for us was not a lucky coincidence, you can trust me, been there, done that… that was a carefully arranged setup. You're the only one who could do it - and I can prove it."

The young man eyed him quizz- and in that moment everything crushed down, as the Hitter's hissed warning send his mind flipping back to the street where he turned on the silver phone. He was in the middle of a quick thought about how youth should not be underestimated, Hardison was the best example for that, and the Hitter's warning came too late.

_Hardison. Silver phone. Tracking_.

He could still see the Mexican in front of him, his lips were moving, but no sound could break through the noise and the fear in his head. If Hardison tracked the silver phone, and of course he did, that would lead them here. Here, into this slaughter, just in time for… Eliot stopped the Hitter who was starting to reach for the guns to kill them all, tried to think through the red fog that was engulfing him, and most of all, tried to remember what he was doing here. What was his last conclusion about the team? Would they try to find him or not? He had no idea, not any more, but the threat was present and near. Even the possibility of their coming…

He blinked a few times to clear his eyes, and found himself on the wrong end of several very nasty looking guns. Heckler & Koch, USP… he registered automatically. They even had two MP7A1s, enough to fight an entire army with. _The nearest was a nice USP Compact, perfect for his pocket_. His move for his guns was obviously very visible. One more mistake like this, and he would get killed before he even started anything.

"Can… can you repeat the last few sentences?" he asked the young man with a wry smile. "This shit is stronger than I thought. What's your name, by the way?"

Mexicans, Marco's Tavern, he reminded himself.

"I'm Alejandro." Great, that would be easy to remember, if he gave him number. Alejandro Two. "I just said that I'm very willing to listen to your proof. Please do continue. And don't try to reach for your guns anymore."

"I was reaching for this." He slowly moved his hand, and pulled out the car keys, throwing them to one of the men with a gun. "Hummer at the end of the street. Bring the man that's inside. Passenger seat."

Alejandro Two nodded, and the man left, taking three more men with him. Fear and wrath were pounding in his head, all the voices were silent, but he chose to sit on a bar stool instead of taking it and killing them all, one by one. Rule number two, he said to himself. He couldn't even lift the damn thing, much less swing it around, not if he wanted to live more than ten minutes after that.

"That man is your proof we are trying to kill you – even when I said we were not trying to do so - and what about the fact that you're here, and still alive?" asked Alejandro Two when the silence started to shift some of his men. He noticed their unease without looking directly at them, and his words calmed them instantly. _This one was good_.

Eliot just stared at him, admitting that the words made some sense, but he couldn't be sure what sense… he was still lost in counting the minutes that had passed, even thinking about turning the phone off – but he knew it was too late. Too fucking late, the damage was done. Unless they were _not_ on his track… damn, the confusion was driving him crazy more than any drug. If he got out of here alive, the first thing he'd do would be to call Nate to see where the hell they were and what they were doing. If… he glanced at his watch once more just when the men came back, bringing Alejandro One with them. He started to listen to the sound of passing cars on the street.

The Mexicans' reactions were simultaneous – they all slowly got up, including their boss, and just stood there, staring at the newcomer.

Ok, if he didn't focus _now_, he might as well shoot himself and spare all of them the trouble. He held out his hand, and one of them handed him the car keys back.

"What the hell is this?!" Alejandro Two asked with clear rage in his voice.

"What? This is your killer." Eliot glanced at his former passenger, and smiled, reminding him of his words about his chances of survival. "And this is his gun." He showed him the gun at his belt. "He said he is a Mexican and that you sent him."

"You have no fucking idea who this man is, do you?"

Eliot listened to his voice, finding in him, besides the rage, a slight note of joy.

"You'll obviously claim he is _not_ your killer." Eliot waved to Alejandro One. "Come here. You remember I told you to smile and keep quiet? Sit there with this fine young man, his name is also Alejandro." It seemed that the Chilean was still more scared of him than of the whole Mexican gang, because he came and did what he was told. Yet, he revealed some of his true self when he eyed his opponent and smiled at him – the younger man, too recently in charge of everything to be the real boss, flinched a little when Villacorta's notorious lieutenant entered his personal space.

The Mexicans were not paying any attention to him now, they were all staring at the table, and Eliot took out his silver phone without hiding it. The pictures he took while checking his contacts wouldn't be of much quality, but all the faces were clear.

"This man is Alejandro Rojas, Villacorta's lieutenant, and his second in command, you idiot. You brought us a man who has done more damage to us than anyone in Boston, who stopped more our businesses than you ever saw, and who killed-"

"Bull shit." Eliot raised his eyes from the phone just for a second. "Why would Villacorta send his right hand to kill one dirty cop? And after that, to blame it on the Mexicans? That is way under his league."

"Really?" The Mexican turned to the Chilean; yes, it would be wise to call them that, too many Alejandros would make the mess in his head even bigger. "Really, why would Villacorta do that?" Eliot sent just one warning glance to the Chilean, and he kept his mouth shut.

"Listen, all of this doesn't make any sense," Eliot said. "If you're not lying about this man, and he is really Chilean and not Mexican and yours, why did he try to kill me?"

"The Chileans do only what Villacorta orders them to do. What's your business with him?"

"Never met the guy before, never been involved in any of his business. What could Villacorta know about me, and my connection to you via Cortez and our job that night?" Eliot softly asked. "I barely know who the man is. You, on the other hand, you're rivals, always fighting… and it seems I'm just here to be used for something. I don't like being used. Especially when I can't guess what the real play is behind all of this. What is _your_ business with him? Or, better yet, what is _his_ business with you? What does he want?" he was hoping the Mexican was as smart as he thought he was. And paranoid, too. No man could be the head of a drug cartel if he wasn't paranoid, able to see all the possible and impossible threats that might occur. His words started a chain reaction in the Mexican's head, as he started thinking. Knowing his own paranoia, he could pretty much guess where this thinking was leading him.

"Maybe you were right when you said that that night was a setup for everybody," the Mexican said slowly. "And maybe we know, now, who designed all that. That even sounds like something Villacorta would do, he likes to deal with all his problems in simultaneous attacks."

"I can agree on that, we were pretty simultaneously taken down," Eliot sighed. "But the State Police did it, not another cartel."

"To get rid both of the Mexicans and Irish in one night, with one strike…" the Mexican continued thoughtfully. "That is something he would do. And he is powerful enough to arrange the ambush on the State Police."

"Wait… you're trying to say I'm in the middle of a cartel war, just because of one courier and a bag of drugs? Sorry, it's not my league, I'm out of here."

"Stay where you are, we are not finished yet!"

_Oh, no, we are not, boy_. Eliot sighed and put the phone away. "Look, this shit is too far gone… you're right, you have nothing to do with that, I'm sorry I wrongfully accused you and all that shit… _they_ tried to kill me because I went out in _wrong time,_ and that means that they are on the move. It's obvious now."

"What is obvious?"

"Him trying to kill me, someone irrelevant, shows that he has to deal with loose ends and witnesses now, because the _next_ turn is beginning… and me contacting you is dangerous. If Villacorta tried, as you said, to get rid of the two largest gang bosses in one night, which he pretty much succeeded in doing, he won't leave the job undone. Especially after his dog comes home and tells him that you all know now. It will speed things up, and I don't want to be involved in this. Hell, I don't want to be near _you_, 'cause he showed us already that he aims for the bosses. You're next, boy. "

The Mexican just looked at him for a moment, then he pulled out his gun and put a bullet in the Chilean's head. The loud explosion sent painful sharp needles through Eliot's eyes, but he didn't blink. "There," the Mexican said after the echo of the shot cleared. "I wanted to do this for years. No dog will go to Villacorta and warn him. Satisfied?"

"You could say that." Eliot tilted his head and looked at the dead body on the floor. Well, he would have to reconsider his statement to Hardison, about the eyes popping out and its frequency. He didn't smile. The voices were silent.

He was a damn gang whisperer, and the night has just begun.

.

.

.

"And what about the Irish?" Eliot asked when two men dragged Alejandro's body near the door, and started to clean the mess. The rest of the gang seemed proud of their young boss, he even got a few taps on the shoulder, but he looked like he was slowly becoming aware of the fact that he killed someone whose death Villacorta would revenge with rivers of blood.

"What about them? We are still in a war with them, and if Villacorta wants to annihilate the Irish, he can do that freely… not my business."

"They are still gathering at Old Joe?"

"They've never had Old Joe as a meeting place, they are always in Callahan's Night club. Why?"

"Because I think my only chances to survive this, is to join the strongest gang and stay close. You may have the most members, right behind the Chileans, but the Irish may prove to be smarter. They would certainly not take the fact the Chileans are cleaning up the city lightly."

"What's stopping me from blowing out your brains just now, for this?"

"For telling the truth?" Eliot glanced at the other members and Alejandro followed his eyes. Some of them nodded in approval. "Besides, if I chose to stay close to you, you might be grateful for another gun at your side. Villacorta put a death mark on some of the people who only helped to arrest one of his lieutenants, and you _killed_ one of them. I've heard that Chileans shoot to kill, without questions… they were something military before they became a drug cartel."

"I know more about the Chileans than you'll ever know," Alejandro said coldly. "I know how they work. And I'm not forgetting that we have only your word on this. You brought us one of his lieutenants and _said_ he tried to kill you and blame us for that – but I'll wait for the real Villacorta's move against us before I declare open war. For now, nobody knows we killed Rojas – and what Villacorta doesn't know, he can't avenge. If it happens, we will fight to the death… and then you'll see who is the strongest."

"Ah," Eliot said only that, listening to the sound of cars stopping in the street. "You're right, without the proof, and his move against you, my words are empty." He pulled out the silver phone and turned it off – it drew the Chileans here after him, and he remembered the time they needed to track the phone, find him, and send a party to kill him. It would be useful for the next time. After that, as the slamming of car doors made all heads to turn to the entrance, he took Alejandro's phone and called one of the cheap ones that he bought earlier.

"Damn, not now..." he murmured and stood up when it rang. "I have to take this call, it's important."

The Mexican just nodded, his attention on the door as well, and Eliot went deeper into the bar, behind the three tables, leaving Alejandro's phone with an open line on one of the chairs that were put behind the tables to make room while they dragged the body.

He barely had time to turn around when the door opened and three men came in. The first thing they saw was their lieutenant's body sprawled on the floor. The second thing they saw was nineteen Mexicans. With guns.

All hell broke loose in a second – the first two were taken down before they could draw their guns completely, the third managed to escape back to the street, but they were not alone. The Mexicans might have been ruthless street fighters, but the Chileans were professionals who knew how to fight and kill, and six of them stayed outside, pouring bullets through the windows and glass doors.

Eliot stayed until he counted how many Villacorta had sent after him – eight, in two cars, maybe two more if the drivers were still in the cars ready for a quick getaway. He was already near the back door, and he managed to pass through the rain of bullets that were systematically sprayed all over the bar, and reached the exit.

Flashes of light were still going in front of his eyes when he entered the dark alley, and he closed them to avoid all the distractions, and went through the dark path he remembered when coming.

The shooting was ceasing when he reached the Hummer. But the screams and cries were still coming through his phone.

He drove backwards, slowly, with his lights turned off, left the street and parked hundred meters down the next alley. The police would be there in minutes.

The screeching of the tires told him that the Chileans mainly survived this fight, and they were retreating to avoid the police as well. And the Mexicans… the cries, gunshots and yelling ceased slowly. The phone must have fallen from the chair at some point, because he could barely hear them speaking, just words with long pauses as they moved and dragged wounded. The words he _did_ hear, though, were enough: gather… call… we can't let… take them to Juan… call all the… meet us in one hour… After that everything went quiet, and he carefully placed the silver phone on the passenger's seat.

He waited until three cars passed by him, leaving the street, gave them a solid hundred meters head start, then went after them, with his lights still turned off. It was important the Mexicans didn't notice him in this block, later in the traffic he wouldn't be so suspicious. Marco's Tavern now was compromised as a gathering place, and he needed to know where he could find them again. It was shame he couldn't follow the Chileans instead of the Mexicans, but they would recognize the chocolate Hummer the moment they noticed him.

The Mexicans drove slowly, trying to not attract any attention, and the police cars with rotating lights that they passed didn't stop them. The third car took a different turn at the next intersection and went the other way, but he followed the remaining two. He was lucky this time – the Mexicans took just a couple of more turns, and stopped near some industrial buildings, almost in a neighborhood. The complex seemed to be half abandoned, making it the perfect place for gang business.

He stopped the Hummer in the deepest shadow, and watched them park and enter one partially ruined building. Then everything went silent, except for the howling of police sirens in the distance.

Eliot turned the engine off, slowly raised both hands on the wheel, and rested his head on them. He didn't close his eyes, but the silence in his mind was welcomed. _So, scared you as well, huh, voices_? No one answered.

He just stared into the darkness, trying not to think, but it was futile to try. His hands were shaking so bad that he was scared he would turn on the auto horn. For one long second he was even thinking that everything that just happened was just a momentary drifting away, and when he turned his head, Alejandro would still be sitting on his seat… but even drugged, he couldn't deceive himself.

He killed him. And all of the rest. He had awoken a conflict that was sleeping, warned them about an incoming attack, and then drove after himself the attacking force. Many of them would die during the night, before dawn, and every single one would die because of him. Just as if he killed them with his own hands.

Doing all of this with the enemy's military units was a lot easier – units that were ready to engage in battle at any time, trained for that. Gangs and cartels were something completely different – their leaders had to collect them first, tell them to leave their dinners, dates, drinking buddies, gather somewhere, and then, go and fight. It wasn't enough just to start a war, he had to feed it like a camp fire – without enough logs to add, and maybe some fuel, it would die away all by itself. And he was already deadly tired.

He knew he closed his eyes at some point, because the flashes and red lights played in the darkness behind his eyelids, not letting him to rest even a minute. No rest could cure this exhaustion… and he had a lot of work to do. _Places to see, people to kill_.

It took an immense effort to open his eyes again, and to occupy his mind with something… anything. For starters, he counted the bullets from the Lady Killer's gun. Two at the doors when he entered the office, one in Parker, one in the ceiling of the tavern. He wasn't sure if he did or didn't shoot a speaker in that café with the Irish song, and he couldn't force himself to actually take the gun and check. It wasn't important, anyway.

That thought woke up the Hitter and he opened his eyes and straighten up. _It would be an easy way out of this - nothing planned, just a miscalculation. Killed by mistake. Seriously_? The Hitter shot a vile glare and took the gun, and counted the bullets. The Hitter despised weakness. That idiot was really annoying, almost as much as the Commander. However, Eliot knew better than to argue with _that_ part of his brain.

Something important was connected to the number of Chileans that came after the silver phone, but it took him another two minutes to figure out what, exactly. There was a small chance that Villacorta launched his attack on the team thinking they were just five grifters that got lucky with San Gui, though his preparations showed different. Yet, his phone call from the last night was intended to wake up his curiosity, and to make him do his research, in case he haven't done it already. Villacorta had to know with whom he was fighting, precisely, it was of the utmost importance. If he still thought they are just a bunch of conmen, he wouldn't send eight, maybe ten killers to kill one man. Nope, he knew now who Eliot Spencer is. And was.

And not that fact, but that _knowledge_ would bring him down.

He checked the watch, surprised when he saw how much time had already passed; he had lost too much time on waiting and driving, and no wonder he only had the strength to sit and stare. Moving away from here would be a great idea, he thought closing his eyes again - but instead of starting the engine he looked at the watch again, not knowing why… and saw that almost twenty minutes passed between those two checks that seemed almost at the same time.

_Fuck. Not good, not good at all_.

The loud ringing of his first cheap phone sent blue lights through his head again, and it _hurt_. Yep, no wonder, it was time for another dose of morphine, and a complete check of the pain levels… but the phone kept ringing and he looked at the screen. Sophie. Just then he remembered his decision to call Nate. Seriously, he should start to take notes, he only remembered a third of _everything_. Except of his plan and those steps, they were carved into his mind with all the details.

A couple of hours had passed without any reaction from them, and this call, at this time, meant something important, and important, in situations like this, often meant trouble. He had to answer this, but his throat clenched in worry.

"What?!"

"I don't know what were you thinking, Eliot Spencer," Sophie's voice was arctic, full of disgust. "But I can tell you, once and for all, that you crossed the line this time!"

For a moment he had no idea about what she was talking about, and he pressed his temple, trying to remember – what the hell he had done _now_; they couldn't know about this shooting yet; or they could; where the hell were they, anyway – but then he remembered what the last thing he left them with was. Parker, you idiot, the Hitter growled at him, pissed because he forgot something like that. Yes, that was it, he shot Parker. He remembered he told Hardison that they are the dead weight, and that he was leaving, having had enough of their shit… It was so distant now, in a past life.

"Didn't Hardison tell you to stay away from me in the future?" he growled, trying to hide that he only partially knew where he was, and what he had to say. "Parker is lucky I shot just her leg." Before this call, he had never heard _this_ ice in Sophie's voice. God, she must have been pissed.

"How _could_ you?!" Great, the ice was now mixed with acid. "First those things you told Hardison, and then, then, you shot the poor g-"

"How could I? Easier than I thought. Go away, Sophie."

That ice recollected him more than he thought it was possible; pissed Sophie was a better antidote for the morphine than that Naloxone that he found; for a moment he was completely bright and awake, and returned to the life in which they were still present as _his_, and not as '_where the hell are they now'_. And it wasn't good, because his mind allowed all the fears and questions to emerge on the surface. No, he couldn't ask how Parker was, what damage the bullet had made, if she was all right… nothing. He couldn't ask, not anymore, how Sophie was doing, and the others-

"You sick bastard!" she hissed. "I swear, if you were near, if we are not leaving, I would, I would…" she stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath, and when she continued, her voice was deadly calm. "You know, our paths will cross again, Eliot, and then you'll know the real Sophie Deveraux. There are some things that are unforgivable, things you don't do to your team… and you'll learn that the hard way."

He remained silent when she disconnected herself, listening to the sound of the dead line, trying to impose some order on his mind. But, his mind was not the problem here, he wanted this to happen. This was logical and expected. No, he needed an order on his feelings; a task that seemed to be beyond his abilities right now. It was slightly different to only think about this happening, and to be hit with it – maybe he had overrated his ability to stay strong and just endure this shit a little. _Well, too late to feel sorry now_. _Move on_. He put away the phone and rubbed his forehead to ease the tension that had mounted behind his eyes. It didn't work.

He shouldn't have felt so empty. The same feeling he felt after he spoke with Hardison; utter exhaustion and emptiness. He _wanted_ this to happen, he reminded himself once more. Hell, not only wanted, he was working hard for it. It was necessary, it would help them more than anything.

He allowed himself one more minute of emptiness and loss, and after that, just to try it, three seconds of self pity. He endured only two seconds, then stopped it immediately - it was an awful and strange feeling; he wasn't a man who could dwell on it more than a few seconds, no matter how hard he tried.

Then, he exhaled, feeling something he forgot, how it felt before all this shit – relief. He wouldn't need to worry about them anymore, about their possible moves, about their damn _lives_… They were leaving, finally. Now, he could concentrate on the Chileans, and not have to think about all the ways they could use to find him.

Yep, he was right. It hurt, deep to the bone. But at the same time, he felt an enormous burden lifted from his back.

He started the engine and drove away, using that feeling of relief to take him to the next step.

Using it, as well, to forget about the Hitter who started to aimlessly stagger all over his brain, staring into nothing, with a blank mind, without a purpose or a cause. Cut off the rest, disconnected. And left to die alone.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

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She could drive while talking, looking at the other passengers, dialing the phone, reciting King Lear backwards, and knitting at the same time, if she knew how to knit, but she couldn't drive while crying. She wasn't really crying – Sophie Deveraux was proud of her ability to control the actual pouring of tears - but she couldn't stop them from gathering and blurring her vision, bringing Lucille dangerously close to a traffic accident.

Nate was patient this time; it took three swerves on the road, while he waited for her to gather herself, before he said he would drive for some time, because he had to think at peace.

So she let him drive, and curled herself on the seat beside him, facing both him and Hardison at the monitors behind Nate's back.

She was grateful for their silence after her conversation with Eliot. They hadn't tried to say anything comforting, or nice, or simply state that everything would be all right at the end – they pretended it hadn't happened at all, and that her silence was just a sign showing that she, too, thought it was something not worth commenting on. Though, she wasn't sure about Parker; there was a possibility she really did think it was nothing special.

The chattering of the police and 911 channels was now directed into Parker's headset, so nothing filled the silence in the van, except for the sound of driving and traffic, and the sound of her own voice that was buzzing in her head in cruel clarity. She was the one who could do it, that was why she volunteered for it, but at the same time, it was something that wasn't _her_. She was supposed to take care of them, to soothe and to comfort, and to bring solace… this speech, no matter how necessary, was… simply awful. She could only hope she would have a chance to tell him the truth.

Nate was driving to Marco's Tavern – Hardison had reported that he'd tracked Eliot's silver phone to a street that sounded familiar to him and Nate, and he searched to see what was there. When he had said Marco's Tavern was there, he sounded aghast and completely lost in thousands of possible reasons for it.

Nate, on the other hand… he just nodded. And Sophie held her breath.

Yes, her eyes were blurred, and it was possible she misread something, but she knew him well, and his reaction sent her stomach churning even more. Hardison explained to her what had happened in Marco's Tavern a few weeks ago, and how it was connected to them – all the details of their boys' night out that had been missed in their talking about it afterward – but Nate just continued to drive, paying attention only to the road.

And she knew, without any doubt, that the news was not a surprise to him.

He knew, or just guessed, that Eliot would go there. Maybe he even knew why. She studied his calm face, closed off as usual, a face that rarely revealed anything, and she couldn't guess what he was thinking.

Reading people was her job, and Nate Ford was always a challenge – but after all those years, she couldn't read him only when he put an extreme effort into closing himself off. This time, seeing _this_ armor, she realized he hid everything, afraid she might accidentally hit something important, something that was not for them to know. One day, she would tell him that he had failed, that effort put into hiding something always revealed the true value of the hidden things, something that a natural born thief would know… but for now, she was just afraid.

He wasn't surprised that Eliot was near Marco's Tavern, and that meant only one thing… he knew what Eliot was doing, or what he would do, maybe even from the beginning. He hadn't told them, he carefully avoided anything that could show them the truth… and at the same time, he was preparing them for the awful things that might happen.

Even now, when Hardison clearly said where Eliot was, Nate said nothing about knowing it already, though it was a perfect opportunity. That meant only one thing: if she asked him, openly, to tell them what he knew, he would just avoid it and fortify the armor even more, closing himself off, withdrawing from them.

She continued to study his blank face and blank eyes, while he was seemingly concentrated only on driving. She could tell that he wasn't relaxed and just lost in thought by the stiffness of his back and the occasional snatchy movements of his hands on the wheel. The only thing she could read, in one short moment when he turned to her to briefly smile, was fear. Barely visible, laced with many layers that were supposed to hide it, but present nevertheless. She has seen him scared before, yet this was different. She recalled the look in his eyes when they'd searched for Hardison when he had been buried, she remembered the look they'd exchanged when the boys had disappeared on that Fishing job, and she managed to find a difference. Those past fears were fears about not knowing their fate – this one was opposite. He feared because he _knew_ something.

Well, it didn't help her to guess anything important, just confused and worried her more. She already knew he kept them in the dark, but now she wondered how much crucial information he was hiding. And why?

"Guys!" Parker's loud scream shook even Nate, and he hit the brakes. "I'm listening to something really strange!" she continued to yell, and stopped only when she saw Hardison's frantical waving with both hands. "WHAT?!" He was pointing to her headset, and she got it, and removed them.

"Huh. That's better." Parker said in a normal voice. "I couldn't hear myself."

"We heard you for sure," Sophie whispered. "And half of Boston as well."

"I was saying, the police channel just exploded, I-"

The ringing of Nate's phone cut her sentence in half, and Nate raised his hand, giving them the sign to stay silent. When he saw who was calling, he nodded to Hardison to put it on speakerphone, and pulled Lucille out of traffic, stopping the engine.

"Speak, Patrick."

"Trouble. I'm just heading to Marco's Tavern. Remember that place?" Bonnano's voice was muffled and almost covered with background noise. "Patrol reported multiple dead, many wounded. It seems it was a gang fight. Do you know anything about it?"

"Marco's Tavern is a Mexican gathering place, yes, I remember that. What does it have to do with the Chileans?"

"Boston is a calm and peaceful city, our murder rate is extremely low. This shooting just filled the quota for an entire month. Do you know Eliot's location?"

"Nope, we can't find him, at least not yet. We had a tracking device on him, but he got rid of it, and we are blind, we have nothing. Do you know anything?"

"He is in the middle of this shooting. I know it."

"It could be a coincidence."

"In my job, there's no such thing as coincidences, Nate. Patrol said, and they are still counting the dead, that some of them were Chilean. It's not confirmed yet, they're all John Does for now, but I trust them. I'm not working the case, hell, I'm not working at all tonight, but I'll be there in half an hour, to see it."

"Maybe it would be wiser to stay home tonight, Patrick," Nate sighed.

"That's precisely what Eliot told me when we spoke. Have you spoke with him?"

"No, he doesn't answer our calls. What did he tell you?"

"Nothing important. But he wasn't himself. He is drugged, and in bad shape. And almost as crazy as he was before that attack at the hospital, just calmer. Find him, Nate, before I do."

With that, Bonnano ended the call.

"La la la laaaa… lying to a State Police officer… very clever." Parker giggled in the silence, and Sophie stopped herself from darting an angry look at her, noticing that her nest was now more than one meter closer to Hardison and the front seats. The thief was slowly, perhaps even without noticing it, moving closer to them. "What are you going to do when Bonnano asks you about all of this at the end?" Parker continued. "He'll be pissed off. He's already pissed. And he is a smart cop, he'll connect everything, he'll-"

"Stop it, Parker." It was Hardison who growled at her this time, so Sophie didn't have to. She was too busy watching Nate, who was sitting completely still, with his both hands on the wheel of the stopped van, and staring at the traffic and passersby.

"Are we still going to Marco's Tavern?" Hardison went on. "It will be crowded with police, and he certainly isn't there anymore." He waited few seconds, but nobody answered. "Nate?"

"No, we're not." he said. "What's the nearest hospital?"

"To Marco's Tavern? It's Whidden Memorial. Why?"

"We have to go there. The dead and wounded will be moved to the nearest hospital. We have to dismiss every possibility, one by one."

"I don't get- Oh," Hardison stopped. "I see. Okay, you're right."

"What? Where are we going and why?" Parker asked.

"We are going to see if – to check, just in case, I mean-"

"To identify the dead and see if Eliot is among them, Parker," Nate cut off Hardison's stuttering. "After that, we can continue without wondering about it."

"Of course he isn't," the thief tilted her head. "Besides, Bonnano is going there-"

"He'll be late. We are closer."

Sophie was silently listening, monitoring the change in the atmosphere, and when the thief started to shift uncomfortably, she got up and went into the back part of the van.

"It's not only about checking if Eliot is there, we'll have a chance to see the wounded and maybe even speak with them to see what happened," she said gently. "For now, put the headset on, it's important to not miss anything that the police report. Okay?"

"Okay," Parker whispered and occupied herself with listening, while Nate started the van again, taking them to the hospital.

Sophie turned on the commercial for the car wash, not because she thought they needed it as a cover, but because she couldn't stand the silence that was suffocating them. Looking at Nate's profile was yet another thing she couldn't stand anymore, so she went back again and sat beside Hardison, noticing he quickly turned off something that looked like hospital security footage. She bit her lip, stopping every comment that might escape. Sooner or later, they all would find out everything they hid from each other.

"Uh – oh," Parker said while Nate was stopping the van in front of Whidden Memorial. "Nate, I think you can expect another call from Bonnano. There's another shooting. Is it now a two months quota?"

"Details, Parker?"

"Shooting reported at Jorge's Billiard club. A small group of Mexicans attacked the pool players, who all returned fire. Strange – why would billiard players be armed while-"

"Jorge's Billiard club is a Chilean place." Hardison interrupted her. "Anything else?"

"Dead and wounded again. It was a call for all officers to report for duty, all police forces are alerted. Of course, it's just the much shortened version, the channels are buzzing. 911 is still getting alarmed calls. The problem is that it's a weekend night, and both the police and ambulances are already too busy – those two shootings are too much, they can barely cover it with enough men."

Nate turned the engine off and sighed. "It has just begun," he said quietly.

"What do you mean-"

"Turn all the monitors off."

"What?" Hardison almost choked, shocked. "Why in the hell should-"

"Do it, Hardison," Nate went into the back of the van, and turned the commercials off. He even removed the headset from Parkers head, along with a wig, which drew a quick smile from the thief – quick, because he instantly put the wig back on her head. Sophie moved to make room for him, but he didn't sit, he stayed, a little bent, and looked at the now dark screens.

"We are trying to catch up with him from the wrong side." Nate said slowly. "We are gathering data all around, and we are burying ourselves with street cameras, tracking devices, phone tracking and locating, maps, dots, green lines… and all of that is just baffling. We are trying to get to the middle by going the long way around – forgetting that the middle we are trying to reach is ready and waiting. Eliot was cut off from everything for three days."

"Yes?" Hardison asked carefully. "And…?"

"We are concentrated on the things we know, and things we come to know, instead of working on the things _he_ knows. And he knows only what we have sent him, and what he learned when he was in the office. Put a blank map on the biggest screen." Nate waited until Hardison did it, and then continued. "Now, put on that map everything you collected about the Chileans, all the info you have, everything that you sent to him. All the places, even ones that were mentioned just once, and seem irrelevant."

Slowly, minute after minute, the map was filling with green dots, as Hardison loaded file after file onto it, and they all watched it, concentrated.

"Now, put a flag on the last place that was confirmed as Eliot's location before the silver phone and Marco's Tavern – burning the orange Toyota, and contact with a taxi driver."

Hardison put a red flag on Columbus Avenue, and quietly whistled when the flag almost touched one of the green dots. "Alejandro Rojas. Villacorta's first lieutenant lives less than hundred meters from the place where he burned the Toyota."

"Chocolate Hummer," Parker whispered.

"Patrick is right – there's no such thing as coincidences tonight. I think we now know what he's driving," Nate said. "Search for the Hummer, Hardison. Skip the first steps, find cameras around Marco's Tavern, and try to follow him from there if you can." He straightened himself and opened the van's door. "Stay here and don't go out. I don't know how long it will take to bring all the dead and wounded. Call me if anything new happens."

"You're going in there alone?" Sophie asked. "Maybe-"

"Yes I am," he simply said, and closed the door behind him.

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Patrick said that the new leader of the Irish gang; _mob, they liked to be called a mob, _Eliot reminded himself; was a worm, while his father, old Callahan, was a snake in the family. He decided to trust Patrick on that matter, the cop probably knew what he was talking about. That reminded him of how close Patrick was at one point in their conversations, with his damn _thinking_, and how he froze then, desperately trying to find a way to stop him from elaborating further about the gangs and cartels of Boston, and all their businesses with them.

He turned around, trying to find something in which he could pour the beer he ordered at the bar, because it was time to order the next one, and mixing morphine and alcohol wasn't such a bright idea, but only thing near him was a plant. No. Not again. He had to stop poisoning plants… George's uncertain destiny was still bothering him. He picked up the beer and moved away from the bar, knowing it was time to do something before all his plans withered from his mind, replaced by plant rescue ones.

Callahan's night club was called Insomnia – he was sure it was chosen for the mockery of the neighbors. The levels of the damn noise reached airport level. Noise, not music. No normal person could call it music, it was only a thumping sound with the occasional screeching of… something that sounded painful. He was in the part of the club where there were only black and purple lights, and of course he couldn't see anything except sudden flashes and movement of bodies that seemed like dancing. Yeah, right, dancing… those abominated things from the last night of hallucinations had more rhythm and grace than these shadows which were staggering around like damn zomb- he stopped himself just a moment too late and silently cursed. He had enough problems with pale shadows and their silent whispers without summoning them.

He moved a few more steps, and again observed Callahan's private part of the club, in the left wing of the enormously big place; he was coming here only to be seen, because it was impossible to do any business here.

One thing was certain – he might go to his table, and the only thing he could think of was waving his hands in an attempt to attract his attention. Speaking was impossible, lip reading was futile because of the light flashes and darkness, and shouting would do no good, either. Besides, he barely had enough air for talking, shouting would probably kill him.

Yet, he could watch him. Michael Callahan wasn't as young as one would expect him to be, he was nearly fifty; the only son of the Old One, able to push himself up only when his father got busted, after a very good and long career. He was sitting with four members of the gang, surrounded by another five goons that were standing and staring all around, and he was busy with his phone.

One of his men, much younger, sitting near him, was explaining something with exasperated waving of his hand, but Callahan barely nodded from time to time, not rising his eyes from the phone. After a minute of trying to speak, the man jerked away and started to stare at the crowd, pissed. Callahan, also, didn't notice the warning look that the third man gave to the pissed one. The message was clear: calm down. The Pissed One, being obviously stubborn, tried again – it might have been something really important, but for Eliot, it seemed that the Pissed One was half crazy with the phlegmatic new boss.

But then Callahan finally put away his phone and smiled, and Eliot could see, even with those damn flashes, that he wasn't phlegmatic… he was just yanking his chain with a nasty, wry smile. Yep, Bonnano was right… a slippery worm, too weak to be a real threat, but certainly dangerous behind one's back.

And he knew what to do with him. At least, he had a pen ready, he didn't have to search the entire night club for one.

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The gun in Callahan's hand wasn't steady at all, making him more dangerous than a cold blooded killer; one could never guess the next move of a nervous and ignorant wannabe killer.

The five goons behind Callahan's back, stopped at a distance of ten meters, however, looked very cold and calm. They all held guns in their hands, and Eliot smiled when he saw that they were identical Glocks. The Irish mob obviously bought at wholesale.

Eliot slowly checked the big empty space behind the night club – staff kept this part clean for the cars of important guests – and he smiled kindly to the scared man who was aiming at his left eye, almost touching his eyelashes. God, how he hated amateurs.

"What do you mean I have only one hour left to live, and how can you help me?" Callahan barked at him. Fortunately, he was expecting that and it didn't awake the wish to kill him. "Who are you and how do you know this? What is this all about? I'm warning you, if this is some kind of joke, you picked the wrong person!"

"You destroyed the note I sent you? I'm pretty sure the waitress didn't read it, you can relax."

"Yes, I destroyed it. Now, speak! Or I'll shoot you right here."

"Apparently, you're poisoned. It was put into your drink tonight, and it's already workin'."

"What?" Callahan smirked. "And how would you know-"

"I did it."

Callahan was so stunned that he lowered his gun, just staring at him.

"You see, I need you to do something for me," Eliot continued conversationally. "After that, you'll get the antidote, and live."

"It's ridiculous… it's-"

"Yes it is. Extremely ridiculous," he broadened his smile. "But I'm in a hurry, and it's working. If it's stupid and works, it ain't stupid."

"I can kill you right-"

"Listen, Callahan." Eliot took half a step closer and pinned the man with his eyes. The Irishman slowly gulped. "I know who you are. I know what I want from you. I'll get it, one way or another. There's nothing you can do to me, little worm, and you know it. Your goons will be dead in five seconds if I just blink. Don't play with me. Put away that gun, and if you want to live, do exactly as I say. And do it now, there'll be no second chances. You have five seconds to decide, and after that, I'm out of here. It's a very slow and painful death, my friend."

"My… my other four man are behind your back."

"I know. And antidote is not here. Cool, ha? Wanna take a chance?"

"I'll need some proof." Callahan finally whispered, and Eliot showed him the syringe with the yellow fluid.

"One was enough, I could spare this one," he smiled. "It will take longer. By the way, you can take your goons with you… the more, the merrier."

"But what?!" Callahan desperately yelped. "What do you want me to do?"

"To break couple of windows, nothing more. Nothing to worry about." Eliot turned around and nodded to the four men that were surrounding him, trying to remain polite and kind. For now, it was working. The Pissed One wasn't looking very upset with Callahan's trouble. "Are you coming or not?" he asked Callahan over his shoulder.

"Who are you working for?" Callahan quietly asked.

"For your father, Michael," Eliot smiled. "Your father sent me."

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Three large black cars with ten Irishmen in them were following the Hummer when Eliot took them for a ride. Just like the Pied Piper of Hamelin; he almost smiled… but he didn't know if they were the rats, or the children.

He wasn't sure if their target would be in the building so late at night, but hell, the windows would do just as nice. Hardison had collected a decent amount of useful data about Villacorta and his lieutenants, including all their businesses, places where they were often seen, houses and buildings they owned, and it wasn't difficult to pick a target. Problem was that he didn't know the gathering places of their members, _yet_, and a cartel of that size had to have at least several at different spots in the town.

Up to this time, the Chileans must have been alarmed, and all the cartels should have been buzzing like an attacked beehive. Except they were wasps, angry, poisonous wasps. _Hello there, insect metaphors_. That reminded him of the list he made in the hospital, 'how to kill your team in ten easy steps', and, unfortunately, that also reminded him of the mosquitoes he mentioned. He had no idea why that was so hilarious, but he almost laughed at the mere memory of it, and the change in the rhythm of his breathing brought him dangerously close to coughing. His lungs made a whistling sound when he inhaled sharply. He barely stopped the car from swerving on the road. So, it had begun…

_Rule number three: laughing is forbidden_.

_Rule number four: Never, _ever_, think about mosquitoes again_.

Only shallow breaths were allowed, and careful use of his voice, and no matter what the cost, no coughing. Coughing could kill him. Whistling sounds, however, were not so bad. Yet.

He dismissed that matter completely from his mind, concentrating on the Irish that were following him in single file, knowing his stupid little play held water those first few minutes just because Callahan was stunned with… well, the stupidity of it. It was so unbelievably… well, stupid, that it had a chance to be true. Even the slightest chance that he was telling the truth was worthy of obeying at first, but with the time he had given to them, to think, to gather themselves, and to decide their next moves, everything changed. He wasn't worried because of it, it was needed just to drag them from the night club, and to make them follow him.

He smiled when he saw a Lamborghini parked in front of a tall, modern looking three-story building. The whole ground level consisted of three giant pieces of glass… he couldn't call them windows. 'SPA resort - premier health and well-being' said a sign above the door, and he could pretty accurately guess what kind of well being was provided in the other two stores. The giant lobby, all white and green, and full of plants, was completely visible from the street, as were the five men that were sitting, walking around, and waiting. Still no lower members of the cartel, no street mobsters; these looked like customers ready for their massages. By the time he parked the Hummer, taking care that it was not visible from the entrance of the building, one more car stopped in front, and a sixth man went in. From the way they were talking, he could guess they were exchanging the news. Three of them were talking on their phones, one of them was carrying over his conversation to the rest of the group.

Villacorta's third lieutenant, a local guy named Gary Barclay, was sitting quietly, listening to all of them, and he seemed lost in thought. He was probably the one in charge of Villacorta's dealing with the team, being the one responsible for the elimination of threats and obstacles. He looked tall and built, with a shaved head and thick neck, but his posture revealed much more – he chose to be seen as the stereotypical bald goon, it wasn't really him. That man was silent and slow, and his hands were very, very still. Eliot had a feeling that Barclay had been giving his orders with nothing more than a kind look, with no words at all, always quiet and calm, but at the same time, he was capable exploding into something very deadly.

He was expecting more men, he realized when Barclay checked his watch. The wasps were nervous, but not out of control, ready to swarm.

He couldn't think of Barclay now, and the threat he was, he had ten Irishmen to deal with. They stopped their cars behind his Hummer, and he had to get out to wait for them and to be prepared. In spite of the fact that he knew he had to move, it was difficult to persuade his legs to do what he told them… and this time he had no time for composure. He felt like he was crawling out of the car, holding himself upright, and once again, black dots danced in front of him, covering the ten Irishman that were surrounding him. He rested his back on the car, crossed his arms and smiled, looking in their general direction, waiting for Callahan to speak and to show him which one of them he should turn his head to.

"I don't believe in that poisoning stuff, you're bluffing." Callahan's voice was steady now. "You _did_ choose the wrong person to play with. I'll take you to our place, and I'll break every bone in your body till you tell me the truth."

"That's better," Eliot said softly. "You see, that should've been your first reaction to that nonsense about poison. But, it's just a little too late to be coming to your senses, you've already showed your quality. Now it's time to ask me what we are doing here, really."

The black dots had cleared enough for him to not only see Callahan clearly, but also the changing of his face color. That boiling rage had to be used and directed at a more attractive target. "Of course you're not poisoned, Michael. It was just a quick way to put you into the action. He would never put your life in that sort of danger," Eliot continued gently. "But, he is not satisfied with you – you're simply not good enough, not resolute enough. That's why you are here, _all_ of you. That building behind your back, is one of Villacorta's covers… probably for a prostitution ring, I'm not sure. His third lieutenant, Barclay, and five of his men, are inside, in the lobby."

"I won't do that. I won't start a war with the Chileans," Callahan said simply. "They'll kill us all, there are too many for us. I've told that to him hundreds of times!"

"Yep, he said you would say something like that. Yet, there's one thing you don't know about the situation. Why your father choose _this_ night to start it? Because, just one or two hours ago, the Mexicans started their war, they are going to finish Villacorta. And every move you make, if you're clever enough to not expose yourself too much, will be considered as theirs. That's a once in a lifetime opportunity, that must not be missed, Michael. That's why you're not alone here." Eliot looked at all of them, one by one, keeping his gaze on them for more than two seconds. The eyes of the Pissed One were glowing in the dark. "One of you, the one who can lead this gang, will obey his orders, and do what he asked of you to do."

They were all silent for few moments, not daring to look at each other.

"So, my job here is done. I was hired to take you here, and tell you the message. That's your target," he pointed to the building. "You know what you have to do. Do it, or don't do it… is not my business."

With that, he simply turned around and walked away from the Hummer, but he stopped after ten steps and turned around. "I almost forgot," he said, pulling out the silver phone. "He said he wants proof. Say cheese."

Jesus, two of them really smiled when he took pictures.

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It was very dangerous part of town to be in, with the Chileans and Irish that might spread their fight onto the streets, and he was in danger from both groups. If something happened to Callahan, the Irish would chase him just as the Chileans would, but he had to stay close to see the outcome, so he could decide his next moves.

He picked up on a small garden with a few trees and bushes, surrounded by a low wall, where he could sit and observe Villacorta's building on the other side of the street, and he had just reached it when the first shot was fired.

He was lucky that shot didn't come when he was crossing the street, because the sound exploded painfully in his head, bringing red flashes. And fear. _What the hell_…

Panic didn't simply strike him, it poured in and hit him in waves that sent him staggering, multiple times stronger than the previous night, and much harder to endure; the sickening rush of fear that messed up his breathing, and sent his heart into hammering so fast that he couldn't even count how quick it was. All he could think about was the need to run, to escape, but he couldn't move, he was only able to crumple against the wall that he barely reached without falling, right next to a tree. He clutched his head with both hands, stuck in the corner between the tree and the wall, but there was no cover from the inner enemy.

It was just the morphine, _just morphine, just morphine_, but no matter how many times he repeated that to himself, this time the calm place in his mind, from where he could safely observe the drug effects, was beyond his reach. He was stuck in a real panic, and he felt as if all the blood in his veins was replaced with adrenaline, bright, gold, burning adrenaline that was rushing to his brain.

In that moment he realized that he couldn't control it anymore, the terrifying thought that brought the real fear along, and he balanced on the thin line that divided panic and fear, fear and panic, panic and… very distinctive fear. He had nothing else to hang onto, so he chose fear, real fear that he knew was his own, not the morphine's, and the fear of losing control brought that same control back. At least, allowed him to pull himself out from the middle of the panic, and place one part of his mind into sanity again. To watch, analyze, and remain sane while the panic continued to beat him into pulp.

He lost sense of time completely, but he knew the time was passing, because every shot he heard sent one more wave of horror right through his skull. What if this never ended, what if the damage to his brain was beyond repair? In that case, keeping the small part of himself sane, only to fully feel all this madness, would be a huge mistake.

Those thoughts didn't scare him further, they only showed him this shit was slowly calming down, or else he wouldn't be able to think about it at all, but only when the silence after the last shot lasted one full minute, he was sure he had pulled himself out from the worst part.

It passed, finally, as sudden as it came, leaving him barely conscious.

Getting it together, it seemed, lasted for hours. He was still shaking, feeling cold to the bone, but he could think again. He remembered he heard many gunshots while the attack lasted, and that probably intensified it even more, but now everything was silent.

His try to straighten himself up, however, failed miserably; he couldn't move, he had no strength in the arm that should push him from the wall. He was only able to sit and continue to shiver, and he had no idea what was causing this utter weakness; the overdose, or blood loss. Maybe he should lower the next dose a little, just to see would it help to ease this exhaustion.

"You should have expected this outcome." The voice that he heard, somewhere to the left, was familiar, and he slowly turned to him. Nate was standing on the edge of the shadow, watching both him and the building with the shattered windows. He blinked a few times, not sure about his vision, but Nate took a step closer, and there was no doubt anymore.

Fuck. And with what part of his brain he should start thinking about _this_? Eliot slowly straightened himself up, using the tree as a support, while his mind was jumping all over the past hours, the last hours in the hospital, and all of the talks, coming to no conclusion about anything. "Sophie said- you didn't leave?"

Nate shook his head. "You're completely aware that I knew what you were going to do, from the very beginning. It was not so hard to calculate the point in which you could be intercepted."

"It's not over yet. There's still four hours to-" he stopped himself when Nate pulled out a gun and aimed it to his head. _Four meters distance, _his mind calculated automatically. No speed, no strength, no hope in intercepting the shot. The wall was two meters behind his back, too distant for cover. That assessment took less than a second, but he shook his head, reminding himself it was _Nate _in front of him.

"Eliot." Something in Nate's voice quieted him more than the gun. "The surgeons couldn't save her. The bullet tore her femoral artery, and that bandage you put on her leg wasn't enough. We came too late. You killed her."

He was frozen for three heartbeats, he could only stare at him, at the gun, at his eyes, at the gun…

The gun.

Nate held a Glock.

His reaction was pure instinct, he had no idea what he was doing, what damage it would do to his wound – he simply stopped holding himself upright, and fell backwards. The bullet almost grazed his hair, he felt its warmth.

He drew the Lady Killer's gun while he was falling, and his bullet smashed the face in front of him right at the moment that it started to transform from Nate's face back into one of the Irishmen. For one long second the two images of the two different men stood still, caught in the moment before the body realized there was no brain to give orders anymore, and fell down.

Jesus. The pale shadows had evolved. _Thankyouverymuch, brain. Fuck you, brain_.

Eliot stayed on the ground, on his back, still holding the gun, absolutely incapable of moving. He didn't _want_ to move. Ever.

How the fuck he could continue with this, when he wasn't able to tell what was a hallucination, and what was reality? He was _sure_ it was Nate. Something rang in his mind when he mentioned the femoral artery, because he _knew_ the wound was nine centimeters away from it, but he didn't think he was imagining things, imagining _him_, he first thought that Nate was doing something on purpose. He would be dead, if he hadn't noticed the gun all of the Irishmen wore.

What the hell he was supposed to do now? Was there any more complications that could come his way and…Yeah, right. Of course there was.

Lying on his back was an _extremely_ bad idea. He slowly became aware of the sound of his breathing; it reminded him of the bubbling of the Pleurevec in the hospital; air that was struggling to pass through the fluids. He was too low, he had to straighten himself up, before the blood he felt in his mouth became a river. God knew what the fall had done to his stitches – he could be pretty sure it didn't _slow down_ the bleeding. Not feeling the pain was dangerous now; pain could tell him the amount of the damage he had done with this.

A vivid image of a turtle on her back came to mind before he could stop it, and he barely managed not to laugh. Rule number three: laughing was _forbidden_.

"What's so funny? You've just killed a man." An unknown voice said and the shadow emerged above him. Eliot aimed at it, but the shadow was holding out his hand, so he reached with his left and let the shadow to pull him up.

The Pissed One.

"Callahan is dead," the Irishman said calmly as if they weren't just one hundred meters away from a crime scene. He glanced at the dead goon, and then looked at him again. "He shot you?"

"Something like that." Eliot was still thinking about the means he could use to figure out if this man was a hallucination as well, pissed because he didn't find any. He couldn't go all over town and pinch people's cheeks. But, whether he imagined him, or not, he was talking to him, and that was helping him to get it together and cling to the reality. He took a few careful steps and sat on the wall, still holding the gun in his hand. _Five bullets shot from the Lady Killer's gun_. _Five._

"Old Callahan didn't send you, right?"

He thought a few seconds. "Nope. I'm after Barclay. It's personal."

The Pissed One lowered his head a little, seemingly preoccupied with loading his gun – a subtle message of temporary truce. Eliot let him have that silence.

"You told us the truth about the Mexicans attacking the Chileans?" the Irishman continued. "And that will cover up our moves?"

"They've killed Rojas in Marco's Tavern."

"And you'll continue, and try to kill Barclay?" the Irishman continued lightly. "That will ease my part in this."

"And you'll continue with this, and lead the Irish? That will ease my part as well."

The Pissed One smiled.

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He returned to the Hummer in the last minute before police came into the street. He supplied the Pissed One – whose name was Alexander, what a surprise, but he refused to remember that – with the useful parts of Hardison's info about the Chileans. In return he got what he needed, the locations of the lower members of the cartel, and their gathering spots, along with a few more useful tips from first hand gangster experience.

So far, the interaction with other people was the easiest part of all this, although he feared it would be the most difficult. Somehow their replies, reactions, and his concentration on their moves, were an anchor that was helping him to moor into reality and concentrate on his task. Problems emerged when he was left alone, when he had nothing to hang on to, left alone with drugs and fears. For now, he might expect a panic attack every time he heard gunshots, and vivid, speaking hallucinations whenever he was not speaking. Beside all that, he started to lose the last, pitiful remains of his strength, and the pressure in his chest was tightening.

Yet, he had found out how to tell if someone was a hallucination; if he or she started to talk about the things that would frighten, or disturb him the most, that was a pretty accurate sign that his brain was just playing his fears in 3D, nothing more. If, however, they showed up and simply asked- he stopped himself when he realized that his talk to Sophie fit into the 'extremely disturbing' category. What if he had imagined it as well? He grabbed the cheap phone and checked the call records, sighing in relief when he saw the time and her name on the display.

Then he looked at the time again. She called somewhere around midnight, more than a couple of hours after they discovered Parker in the office. Yet, she sounded freshly pissed off, the reaction he would expect immediately upon finding her… Something was strange at work there, but he couldn't nail it down. Maybe she called after the surgery, but that would mean that it lasted much longer than a through and through should, the wound being complicated, or dangerous, or…

Okay, it was the time for the rule number five: _stop thinking about Them_.

If they showed up, he would check before shooting, and that was it. Nothing else was allowed.

He stopped the Hummer on a red light and just stared into the traffic, losing his trail of thoughts, fascinated by the blinking lights. It was extremely difficult to focus his eyes on the solid spots when everything was moving. He had the feeling he was forgetting something important, but he couldn't remember it, though he knew it was something connected to 'things that had to be done'. With numbers, and the steps in his plan… as if that forgotten thing was making a big hole in his doings.

The loud honking behind him warned him that the green light had almost passed, and he slowly started the car again, resisting the urge to drive back and smash the impatient driver.

It was a pure luck he was just thinking about not being able to remember something important, 'cause that driving backwards reminded him. He continued to drive until he found a dark, dirty street, where he stopped and got out.

He carefully knocked on the back door of the Hummer.

"Still alive?" he asked quietly.

"Not only alive, but enjoying the time of my life." The voice from the inside sounded muffled, but cheerful. "Do not even think about releasing me, I'm quite comfortable in here."

Eliot sighed and opened the door. The young man in a dark suit slowly sat up, raising both hands in the air as high as he could, what wasn't much, because they were still bound to the back of the seats.

Villacorta's second lieutenant, Matio Tapia, the proud owner of the Lamborghini, was extremely lucky because his car was not appropriate for collecting lieutenants, so he was taken first and put into Rojas's cargo space while Eliot waited for him – if he drove something bigger, he would be in Marco's Tavern instead of Rojas. Tapia was in charge of gambling, and he was the head of Villacorta's casinos.

And he had nothing for him beforehand.

"You know, I've told Renan not to kill you," Tapia continued. "It's not my fault he decided against it. My voice was not enough. In fact, I'm your ally here."

Eliot just watched him. Having one lieutenant in reserve, until he figured out what to do with him, was not so bad.

"Maybe ally is not so appropriate. Too strong of a word, right? Let's just say, I'm not a danger to you, nor I will be. There's no need to kill me or… anything like that. Renan doesn't even _like_ me."

"You have no idea what's going on in here," Eliot said.

"I was in the trunk and unconscious for hours! How could I know… wait. Should I know? Would you like me to know? Just say, we can negotiate something that will be good for both-"

Eliot closed the door with another sigh. Damn idiot was charming. Sort of. Annoyingly charming… and he didn't like analogy that came to his mind.

The only important thing here was that he remembered he had one joker in his hand, and he wasn't going to forget it again, nor leave him in the Hummer when the time to change cars came. Or the time to burn it.

Tapia's phone was put on silent and he had stuck it in the back pocket of his pants; when Eliot checked it, it had nine missed calls. Five from Villacorta, two from Barclay, two from Yonni Bugueno, the fourth lieutenant. Uncertainty was much more devastating than a clear confirmation of someone's doom.

Good.

Eliot thought for few more seconds, then he went to the back and opened the door again.

"I don't like it." Tapia said carefully when their eyes met. "You've changed your mind about something, right? About me?"

"Sort of," he smiled. "I forgot to ask you do you need anything? Are you comfortable? Thirsty, hungry? How's your head?"

"I'm fine." The fear was now visible; the young man eyed him suspiciously. Same story as with Alejandro; the moment he started to be nice, they started to panic. It seemed that growling and death threats were the only way to keep them calm and at ease."Why do you ask?"

"Because I've told you already, you have no idea what's going on." Eliot smiled again. "If you stay patient and just wait, I'll explain everything to you. And I'll tell you why you are here."

"Sounds great." Tapia produced a twisted smile.

"It _is_ great." Eliot slammed the door again.

Even if he failed to think of something for Tapia, his presence in this car wouldn't be in vain, it would pay off later. His moves were dangerously close to becoming a strategy, and he sighed, not liking it at all. That wasn't his line of work, strategy was something he had to avoid. He had a strategist on the other end of the board, and he had to avoid playing his game. He would lose.

Villacorta was a winner, too dangerous to confront, too experienced to be shaken so easy, and everything he had done so far wasn't enough. The Chileans would recuperate from this in a matter of hours… but he wasn't done yet.

Tactics was his field – small moves, everything thought and designed to every detail, and successful at the end. He didn't need a strategy, as long he was winning in every tactical move he made.

All he had to do, was keep track of everything, cover the board with scattered clusterfucks, use everything that was at hand, and watch the Spider trying to guess the strategy behind it. Where there was none.

The fires were burning already; it was time to add more fuel.

He had less than four hours to do it.


	28. Chapter 28

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Hardison kept looking at the door long after Nate left to identify the dead, seemingly forgetting his search for the Hummer; his eyes were narrowed just as much as Sophie needed to guess his thinking. The hacker knew Nate was not telling them everything. And he wasn't happy about it.

He caught her stare when he turned to face the monitors again, and smiled.

"Welcome to the club," she simply said.

Hardison threw a quick glance towards Parker who was silently humming, occupied with her headset; she couldn't hear them.

"If we ask him, he'll close up even more, you know that?" Sophie continued.

"I know. But he made a mistake, he gave us a clue. Remember what he said about chasing Eliot from the wrong side? We have to do that with him, too. We can find out what Nate knows, by only researching the data that he knows." He reached out and took Eliot's papers from the small spare desk behind the driver's seat. "This is the one thing only he worked on, everything else we know. And I think he didn't tell us all of it."

"Do you want me to do it?"

"Better not, I'm already familiar with the numbers and letters, you would have to start from the beginning and lose time. Searching for cameras is mostly automated, I can do both."

"Great, then I'll just sit here, having nothing to do, and worry myself to death."

"I'm worried." Parker stated flatly, and they both jumped and turned to the thief. She slowly removed the headset, which meant she didn't hear what they were saying, and that her words were a general comment on the situation.

"I know, dear," Sophie said gently. "It's normal to be worried in a situation like this one. There's noth-"

"What situation?" Parker blinked. "Oh, you mean these shootings, Eliot, the Chileans, that? I'm not worried about that."

"How can you be not-" Sophie remembered, at the last moment, that this was Parker, and bit her lip.

"It's very simple," Parker smiled. "We are going after Eliot, and we never fail. That means we'll find him on time. Eliot is out, fighting, and he is never beaten. That means he'll be okay too. I'm not worried about _that, _silly."

"And what are you worried about, Parker?" Sophie tiredly rubbed her forehead.

"Things won't change, right? I hate changes. I can't get out of my head all that Hardison said, about… loving going around. I'm a thief, I, I... I don't do _loving_."

Sophie looked at Hardison; it looked like his eyes crossed slightly as he tried to comprehend Parker's words. He waved helplessly, turned his back on them, and buried himself in some papers.

"Someone should have warned me about that," Parker grumbled on. "I have no idea what I'm supposed to do…am I supposed to do anything? And what?"

"Nothing changes, Parker, and you don't have to do anything. Hardison was talking… metaphorically. You know how he exaggerates everything?"

A squeak of protest came from the hacker, but it wasn't full-hearted. Parker nodded.

"Look at that speech as his attempt to add a little more drama to it, okay?"

"That makes sense," the thief murmured, still frowning. After a few seconds of thinking, her face lightened again and she smiled. "Okay," she said simply, and put her headset back on.

Sophie just sighed. And checked the time.

She moved into the driver's seat, in case they should need to quickly drive off, and started to monitor the ambulances that were entering the hospital yard.

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Half an hour never seemed so long, but she occupied herself with going through all of Hardison's data once more, trying to memorize every detail. She was going through it for the third time, when she noticed that Hardison had started to pay more attention to his screens, than to the papers he was studying. Either he had found the Hummer, or he was done with the papers, and both things were important.

"You've found the car?" she asked.

"Nope, I'm widening the search."

"So, you've found what Nate is hiding?" she tried again.

"Nope." He didn't blink, his stare was steady. "I'll continue with that."

Crap. She didn't know if she should follow her wish to strangle him right there where he was sitting, or to just start to scream until his ears bled. Damn moron, he really thought he could lie to Sophie Deveraux? Hardison probably noticed her rage under her smile, because he quickly smiled and looked away, pretending he had to type something. Sophie continued to smile.

This was the same shit the two of them served her with the warehouse recording – let's protect gentle women, don't tell them something that would upset them. Hadn't they learned anything? She had no time, nor the nerves to slowly draw the truth from him, so she got up, went to Parker, and removed the headset. The thief turned around, bewildered.

"Parker, what would you think of a man who's lying to you, because he thinks you're too gentle to handle the truth, and too weak, being a woman?" she asked her, but she watched Hardison. His face froze in panic.

"Is this a test question?" Parker blinked.

"No, no, you don't have to answer that, no mamma you ain't, don't answer. Nobody here is thinking you're gentle, and weak, nobody!" the hacker babbled, at the same time smiling to Parker, and darting murderous stares to Sophie.

"So, what have you found?" Sophie asked calmly. "Or do I need to elaborate all the trust issues and ask Parker her opinion on them? And your role in it?" She watched his inner struggle, feeling no sympathy at all. She had enough of this macho crap, and tonight wasn't the time to be patient and full of understanding.

Hardison glanced at Parker, with clear worry in his eyes, and cleared his throat. "Would you mind joining me for a walk, Sophie?" he stated officially. "Parker has to continue listening-"

"Oh, stop it! No more lies, Hardison! She ought to know everything, as much as we do! No more hiding things!"

"Said the woman who knew for hours that Eliot knew we were here, and told nobody?!"

"Okay. From now on. No more hiding from now."

"Eliot left the hospital with internal bleeding that hasn't stopped."

She stared at him for a few seconds, not knowing what to say. She felt Parker turning to her, as the thief often did in situations that needed clarification, but she couldn't react to that now.

"How do you know? How dangerous is it?"

"The fourth group of his calculations was monitoring his internal bleeding, hour after hour. For a three days, there was only a slight slowing. It didn't stop. Here it is, precisely, how much blood filled that machine at the end of the tube – he calculated the rate per hour. It's not good."

"I thought he was recovering extremely well-"

"So did I. But think about it – he still had that chest tube. That alone should have told us there was still bleeding, and he removed it, obviously before he should. I can't believe we didn't connect it."

"That means he'll be even weaker than we thought," Sophie murmured.

"No." The acrid voice from the door startled them all, nobody heard Nate opening the door. "That means he has less than four hours before he dies."

"What do you-" Sophie started but broke off. His eyes were pissed off.

"You obviously didn't get to the last part," Nate continued. "It's the not last seven hours in the hospital, it's seven hours _after_ his leaving. It's the time he has before his lungs fill with blood. Betsy had told me all of the details. Do you want to hear it?" His last words were bitter and angry, and they all hesitated.

"Before that…" Hardison glanced at the hospital behind him. "You've…checked… everything that needed to be checked?"

"Yes. He's not there. They're expecting one more body in the next fifteen minutes, so I used that time to bring you this," he put cups with coffee on the floor of the van. "So, now that you're so eager to know all of it, do you really want to hear it?"

"If anyone has the right to be pissed, it's us, so cut it out, Nate! We are wasting time on something we should have known already. We could search for the damn Hummer instead!" Sophie knew that raising the tension wasn't such a clever move, but she couldn't help it. He _dared_ to look angry!

"Yes, you should! Because knowing this is of no use! But you had to stick your damn noses into-"

"Just tell us!" Hardison growled. "You have no right to decide for us what to know, and what to feel about it!"

"Betsy said that his lungs are filling with blood, now that there's no tube to drain it. It's only a matter of time before he dies because he'll bleed out, or before that, because he won't be able to breathe. He knows that. He knows he had only seven hours, less than four hours now, but the problem is, his calculations were made while he was in bed, without anything that could speed that bleeding up. He has now been moving for hours, doing god knows what, and those hours are not relevant anymore. He can't know for sure. We can't know either. He might be dead by now, do you understand that?"

"Call him," Sophie whispered. "Forget about all that crap about us leaving, it's not important anymore. Not even the Chileans are important. Call him, we have to-"

"I did." All the bitterness left his voice, he sounded just tired. "Both phones we can call, the cheap one, and the silver one, are turned off."

"That could mean he is just busy," Parker quietly said.

"You're right, Parker." Nate nodded. "We shall continue to think that."

Sophie smiled at the thief, just in case, then looked at Nate again. "If he knew all that, if he knew that he… Nate, it looks like plain suicide."

"I was wondering about that myself. Cutting us off seemed to go with that conclusion, and I really feared he went out to do as much as he can before he dies - but then I saw something in his room that showed me the opposite. He knows the danger, but he is working on solving it. And, he is counting that his job will not be finished tonight. He was preparing for the day as well."

"What have you seen?"

"A box, small one. Sunglasses were in it. Every little thing he did in that hospital was meaningful and significant, and everything is a clue. You don't need sunglasses if you count on being dead by dawn – and he ordered them on purpose, he knew why he was doing that."

"Just as you knew what he was doing, Nate?" Sophie asked slowly.

He let a few seconds of silence stretch between them before he nodded. "I'm waiting for more information to be completely sure, but yes, I knew what he was going to do. Problem was, and still is, I have no means to find out _how_ it will be done. There are too many possibilities."

"When will we get the explanation?"

"Not yet. I'm working on the details, working on our moves, and I have to go back to the hospital. Later."

"What are our moves?" Hardison murmured. "If we don't find that Hummer, we have nothing, just aimlessly driving and listening to the shootings."

"You all forgot that origami butterfly? Why is he doing all this, if not for us to be able to do something against Villacorta? Start looking at the big picture – we are not here only to be as close to him as we can– we are here, walking on the edges of that damn web, waiting to strike a blow when the opportunity comes." A small, tired smile briefly showed on his face. "Of course, there is a possibility he'll fail in clearing the path for us, or he's failed already. If it is so, well… we'll probably get killed. At some point tonight, I'll ask you again about a decision – something that might decide if we all live or not. But not yet."

His phone rang again, and Hardison put it on speaker immediately.

This time, Sophie noticed, there was no hurry or distress in Bonnano's voice.

"Good evening, Nate," he said politely.

Nate squinted. "Good evening, Patrick. What can I do for you this time?"

"Oh, nothing important." Bonnano's voice was so soft that it sounded almost like purring. "I was just wondering, do you happen to know why Michael Callahan would choose _this_ night to attack the Chileans?"

"Erm…" Nate managed to hide the smile, but it was heard in his voice when he continued. "Coincidence, perhaps?"

Bonnano took a long, meditating breath. "Yes, of course, that must be it," he said softly. "There's _really_ no other explanation. By the way, where are you?"

"Identifying the dead from the Marco's Tavern shooting."

"I'm calling from the Callahan's shooting, I've checked _everything_. There's no need for you to repeat that procedure with these victims."

"Thank you, Patrick. That will give us more time to… do something useful."

The silence at the other end was longer this time. "About that coincidence you mentioned… If I meet _it_ tonight, somewhere on the streets, I'm not sure if I should kill it, or thank it. Kinda feeling both at the same time, you know?"

"I completely understand that sentiment."

"I bet you do," Bonnano smirked, and cut the line.

"You'll keep him in the dark?" Sophie asked.

"As much as I can," Nate nodded. "It's better for him to know nothing. I don't want to put him in the position where he has to choose between friendship and his job – and he's balancing on the very edge already. We have to protect him. I have to go now, wait here."

"Wait!" Hardison jumped in. "You don't have to check that last dead body, Eliot is obviously alive if he managed to send the Irish after the Chileans."

"From now on, we can't know if he is doing something right now, or we are just watching the end of an avalanche that has a life of its own. He might have pushed the Irish two hours ago and gotten killed immediately after that – and we are watching the results of that action. Nothing we hear or see is proof he is still alive."

"I'll call Bonnano and ask him were, exactly, the Irish attack occurred," Hardison sighed. "That way I can skip from Marco's Tavern directly there, and have a new, fresh point in the search for the Hummer."

"You do that," Nate nodded. "And ask him if he knows any of the names of the victims besides Callahan, particularly any Chileans." With that he closed the door.

Sophie sat silently for some time, then touched Hardison's hand. She glanced at the hospital and touched her earbud, and he nodded, waving her to go freely, and that he had everything under control.

Quietly, not wanting to disturb Parker who was listening to the police channel again, she got out.

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.

.

She found him sitting in the lobby, watching a wounded gang member who was making trouble for the three cops who were trying to control him. The wounded man was trying to free himself and go to the other end of the hall, where there were two other men, lying on stretchers, waiting to be processed. He was spitting curses.

"Mexican?" Sophie quietly asked.

"Yes. And other two are obviously Chileans. It seems that neither of the hospitals will be peaceful places tonight, and securing everything will draw even more police forces from the streets."

Sophie sat next to him and looked around. "I hoped I wouldn't have to see any hospital again, ever." Then she thought better of it, and sighed. "Let me rephrase that… I do hope to see a hospital again, and as soon as possible. But not this one."

She caught a small smile on Nate's face, but he said nothing.

"Parker said she is not worried about this at all," she went on. "In short – we always succeed, and Eliot is never beaten, so there's nothing to worry about."

"We should listen to her much more."

"So, you share her optimism?"

"I spoke with one Mexican for a minute, when he was left alone… their story is that they were innocently drinking, when bloodthirsty gangsters rushed into the tavern and started killing. They didn't even return fire, they were not armed, and all the dead Chileans are victims of friendly fire, because, they can't explain how, they've caught themselves in a crossfire. It's their story, and they stick with it. No mentions of Eliot."

Sophie thought about it for a second, admitting that although it sounded incredibly stupid, it had a chance to hold water just because it was hard to challenge without clear evidence, when she noticed he had skipped her question.

"And no, I do not share her optimism." The bastard was reading her thoughts. "I _am_ worried. Though, if we compare all our worries, I think we would find that they are completely different for each one of us."

"And what do you worry about?"

"Ah, _a few_ things." He smiled again, still not looking at her, still watching the Mexican. "But the one that occupies me right now, the one I was thinking about before you came, is the one particular thing I'm afraid Eliot doesn't quite understand." Nate raised his hand and pointed towards Boston in general. "This… guerrilla war on the streets that he started, all that playing with enemy forces, pushing them, drawing them into the open, pulling their strings… all that military crap. He thought he had to go back to military mode to do it – but he doesn't understand that's degradation for him. He thought the hitter wouldn't be able to do it, and he didn't realize that the hitter is the sum of all of the best that he has ever been in his life."

"And there's one thing you don't understand – Eliot would never start something like this, if he wasn't sure he could control it. I'm not afraid of his doings, being in military, hitter or kangaroo mode, he is far too smart to be the only thing standing in his way, in whatever form or state of mind. I'm simply afraid _for_ him."

"Since we're speaking freely," Hardison's voice came through their earbuds. "It's the best time to ask you when will it be safe to hit him."

"Since _we,_ obviously, speak freely, it's the best time to tell you it was two days ago," said Nate.

"He was sedated after surgery two days ago, I don't think you understand what I'm asking here…" Hardison trailed off, and then figured it out. "What? Safe for _him_! Not for me!"

"And why would you hit him?" asked Sophie, grateful for the interruption that lightened Nate's face a little.

"Hello? Just because I'm going all superhero for him, it doesn't mean I forgot he shot Parker – it's my duty to avenge that. Old fashioned duels are out of the question, but her honor must be revenged. When this shit is done, I'll ask you once a day when it will be safe to punch him, you hear me?"

Sophie tried to imagine that particular event and squinted a little.

"And, I also found the Hummer," Hardison said after a dramatic silence. "And lost it again after two cameras, in these damn small streets. But, I know the part of the town, I know where we have to go, and most important, you don't have to wait for that last dead body, because he is driving as we speak. Come back."

Well, that was a relief, Sophie thought as they went back to the van, parked about one hundred meters down the street from the hospital entrance.

"Parker reports one more car blown up," Hardison continued. "It was ten minutes ago, far away from Eliot's position, but I nevertheless put that spot on the map with the Chilean info, and it showed that the car exploded in front of Villacorta's second lieutenant's residence, a guy named Tapia. Somebody blew up his Lamborghini – it's totally destroyed and only after a thorough investigation will they be able to say if somebody was in it, or not. By the way, for someone who has been practically living with voices in your heads for years, you pretty quickly forgot I can hear you. Distress is a reasonable explanation, but it can be dangerous."

"Really, Hardison? Just like you were aware I was listening to every word you said since I've left the van?"

"Oh." The hacker went silent, but their luck didn't last more than a few seconds. "Of course I knew that! I was just letting you know-"

"Turn around!" A loud voice cut off Hardison's words just when Nate opened the back door of Lucille, and they both froze.

"I said, turn around, or I'll shoot you right there where you stand!"

For a long moment Sophie held her breath, while Nate slowly turned around to face the man that was standing behind them. She did the same, hoping that was just some eager cop, nervous because of the gang members that were in the hospital, but this one wasn't a cop. He was a neat, tidy, very Chilean killer who probably came to monitor the situation with their dead and wounded, and got lucky recognizing the people they'd been trying to kill. He looked behind them, at decorated Lucille, and smiled, obviously realizing why they couldn't find the van.

"Very clever," he said simply and raised the hand with the gun.

The next thing Sophie saw was something silver flying, and the Chilean falling backward as it slammed right into his face. She blinked, and the silver thing transformed into one of Parker's crutches, thrown violently through the door. Before she could react in any way, Nate grabbed her and threw her into the van, following her.

"Move!" he yelled at Hardison who was already in front seat, and who started the engine and drove off as fast as he could.

Sophie stared at Parker, still on her knees, with the other crutch in her hands, and realized she threw the first one as if she threw a spear.

"I can't move," the thief whispered, pale as a sheet, and they both pulled her up and eased her on the pillows.

"This one is not dead," Nate said. "He'll soon contact the rest, and tell them about the van. Hardison, find a dark street; we have to remove all the decorations. "

"So, we are a target again?"

"Yep, very visible." Nate briefly smiled. "But, we'll be a moving target, if it is any consolation to you."

The hacker's sigh was the clear answer.

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.

To an uninformed observer, Villacorta's mansion would look like a place where a large party was in full swing. Eliot couldn't risk getting too close with the Hummer, so he observed the lit driveway and vast front yard from a distance that wasn't allowing many details. He could only see that cars were going in and out, and that everybody seemed to be in a controlled rush.

That was enough. Villacorta was on the move, he was filling the streets with his army, and if Eliot guessed correctly, watching the loaded cars, Boston would soon find out what 'simultaneous attacks' really meant. In their full strength.

'Don't mess with the Chileans' – an almost forgotten sentence from that Korean gangster a few years ago, came to his mind. Too late for that. He should really learn to listen to clever advice, no matter who was saying it.

He slowly retreated from the shadows where he watched Villacorta's house. It was time to add more logs to this fire, but the particular log he had in mind was full of thorns, and poisonous. More than that, the fire would be extremely hard to control, and he was risking a real forest fire with that one.

Italians.

Pulling the mob into this fuckup could be a turning point and a crucial move, and, at the same time, a very fast and very slippery road to quick death. Mexicans and Irish were violent and easy to push… to activate the Italian mob, on the other hand, he had to contact them via their attorneys, and include a project plan in his business offer. In five copies.

The most important, he had to avoid any contact with any of them, or he would be found before the dawn. That octopus would spread all over town, and silent men in suits, from the Department of Urgent Intervention or something similar, would be trying to make an appointment. The Italians might think that their organization was improved with that High Business Going All Legal And Polite Inc., but in reality, the only thing that had changed was the quality of their suits.

He had the Italians in reserve while making his plans, and he only made rough sketches of action, knowing only a few names and possible approaches, but now he had someone who could tell him about the Italians from the Chilean point of view. It would lower the chances for connecting either him, or the team, to the developments further in the night.

Yep, he had someone… but barely.

He watched Matio Tapia who was marching across the street; he obviously recognized neighborhood, and he was heading right to Villacorta's mansion. It was just a matter of time when before he'd be spotted by the cars that went in and out.

_Rule number six: don't leave the car unlocked, even when prisoners are bond to the backseat._

Eliot waited until Tapia came closer, and put a silencer on the Lady Killer's gun.

"I don't think it's a good idea," he said softly, startling the young man who froze in the middle of a step. "Move away from the street, slowly."

"It sounded like perfect idea until a few seconds ago." Tapia sighed and obeyed, raising his hands in the air. "I just got bored waiting for your explanation of this – you do know abductions are illegal, right? I guess you do. You can't say I didn't show extreme patience as well. After all, I'm a dangerous gangster." He smirked at his own words, but straightened himself up, and repeated threateningly. "Dangerous, mark my words!" The horror that his words should have brought was lessened a little when he cautiously glanced to see their effect.

"Walk, dangerous gangster." Eliot waved with the gun and Tapia sighed again and went slowly two steps ahead him. They were returning to the Hummer the long way around, Eliot chose a dark path, and avoided street lights. It was good Tapia was ahead him, because if he saw his smile, the gun wouldn't be such a threat. The last thing he had expected during the night was getting fond of one of Villacorta's lieutenants.

It was a damn long walk.

When they reached the car all he wanted was to sit and rest, but he had to decide what to do with Tapia. Tapia wasn't as scared as he should be, and he might be a much bigger threat than Alejandro was, despite the fact that Rojas was more dangerous and an experienced killer. This one seemed reckless, and it could prove fatal if he tried something. One lucky blow could not only knock him down, but kill him.

This time, he tied him with duct tape in the passenger seat, both hands lowered and separated so he didn't look suspicious from the window, and to the seat as well, leaving only his legs free. Tapia was silently sulking.

By the time he finished his hands were shaking again, and breathing and moving started to be painful, a clear sign that the last dose of morphine was slowly wearing off. The voices were silent for some time, and his mind felt more like… his.

Eliot got out of the car; it wasn't wise to let Tapia see him drugging himself, especially because he left the hospital catheter in his left hand. It was easier to just connect the needle to that, than to try to find the vein in the darkness.

He hesitated, looking at the syringe. Panic attacks, hallucinations, voices, madness, all in full strength again… damn, he had no idea how he would deal with it this time. He was already exhausted, he barely walked, and it would be much harder. He could already feel that falling on his back had done something to his stitches because the pain was different, deeper and sharper. He had checked the bandages after that and had found only a small stain of blood, nothing that the deep purple of his shirt wouldn't cover up. But, it wasn't _that_ bleeding that was worrying him. He was weaker than he thought he would be, and the buzzing in his ears was a constant, annoying noise that was warning him he could pass out at any time. His time calculations were of no use anymore, he had nothing to guess how much time he had left… and all that he had done so far was not enough.

Well, that thought ended his hesitation; without morphine he wouldn't be able to do all that had to be done, at least not as efficient and fast. He had two more shots left, and it would have to do until the dawn… after that, if he was still alive, it would be time for the slow cleaning and preparing for the final steps of all of this. Pain would not be important then, as long as his mind was clear, without drugs. He promised Villacorta they would continue their conversation, and he would deliver it… yet, he had to prepare more things before that talk.

In a long moment, he stood caught in the total absurdity of his doings. He had been shot just three days ago, for god's sake, how the hell he thought he could continue with this… how long before he just fell down and died. By rights, he shouldn't be alive now, after all he had done so far… and yet, he was standing in the middle of Boston, and he was preparing to involve the Italians in this, this… his mind froze, for a second he couldn't remember _why_ he was doing this. _And just how fucked up his brain was, really_?

He was drifting away because of the morphine, he tried to convince himself… the last dose was wearing off, that's why he was able to feel worry and fear again, but it was still stronger than the regular doses in the hospital, and it afflicted his concentration. Just that, nothing more. Nothing to worry about.

Yeah, right.

He guessed the half of the remaining morphine, and shot himself with it before he could start thinking again. And hesitate again. The morphine whispered about invincibility and gave him the feeling that he could do everything; it could get him killed, but it was pushing him further, blocking fears. He had to get this job done.

His time could run to zero without any warning, and he had to do as much as he could before that. From now on, every single step in his plan would be a gift. If he didn't make it to the final step with Villacorta, he had to make sure that all of his previous steps worked out and did what he wanted them to do.

All of this, all this death, just for one, small result, so imperceptible that would be missed by everybody. Invisible to all, except for one person.

The King always had the best view of the entire board. Nate would know what to do when he saw it.

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.

He waited until the shadows of the night became sharp again, and returned to the car when the Specialist and Commander started to quarrel about Tapia and his usability in upcoming events. He knew Tapia was, for now, more of a liability and danger than something useful. One wanted him killed, one only squared away, but Eliot shut them both down, watching the Chilean who was shifting in the seat.

His green jacket was at hand, ready to be put over his prisoner's head in case he needed him hidden.

"Tell me about the Italians," he said simply.

Tapia glanced into the darkness that was surrounding them, avoided eye contact, then looked at the gun with the silencer.

"My line of work has very little contact with them," he said carefully. "Gambling is divided equally among the cartels, and it's known which part of town is controlled by whom. You should ask Rojas about them, he's dealing with the problems that the other cartels are causing… I can call him and ask him details, if you want. Or, I can call Barclay, he solves those problems. He is frighteningly good in solv- uhm." Tapia paused, then shifted again. "I forgot, you're the problem that Barclay is solving, too. Okay, we won't call Barclay then. He scares me as well, sometimes."

"Italians," Eliot softly reminded him.

"I avoid them, all right? Last month I had a situation, and Renan was asking me to deal with it all by myself, and trust me, I haven't slept for days. Those bastards suffocate you with negotiations and all lawyer-ish bullshit, and in the end you have no idea what you want, what you got, if you won or not, and why they are smiling so sleazily. Don Lazzara claimed one of my casinos was in their territory, but it's on the border, near South Boston, and they just wanted to see how we would react. They are always poking, constantly trying to feel our pulse, and I don't know why they're always picking on me."

Eliot had a few ideas why the Italians would try to attack the weakest link, but he said nothing. This man wasn't fitting into the gang, much less into the upper circle of the cartel, unless he was missing something, unable to see some hidden qualities. Tapia looked under the thirty, like an ordinary good boy, fresh from college. Alejandro was an experienced killer, much older than this man, and he was frightened of being in the same car with Eliot. This one was just worried.

He smiled at him, just to test something. And Tapia relaxed a little.

"Do you have problems with Italians?" Tapia continued. "I can guarantee you, we can help you, just say what you want."

"In case you didn't notice, my only problem is the Chileans."

"Erm, yes, I remember that. That leads to another question – what am I doing here? You said you'll explain. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining… tonight is very exciting and interesting, I have no objections. I'm just missing a clue here, you know?"

He couldn't tell him that he had no idea why he was dragging him around, not that the only other option was to kill him. He certainly couldn't just throw him out, he knew too much. If he didn't find a way to make his presence more useful, he would have to… Damn.

Eliot put the gun away and started the car. Maybe his mere presence would be useful enough, when he started to lose contact with reality again. Talking to him could help him to concentrate more. By now, the lights were pulsing before his eyes again, and the darker shadows were purple, not black. Driving would again demand all of his skills, with a three second delay in all of his reactions. With a sigh, he put a seatbelt on Tapia; his hands were tied under the seat, and sudden braking or a crash could send him through the windshield, with his arms still in place. Two sulking voices in his head heaved exasperated sighs.

"Now, while I drive, tell me everything you collected on Don Lazzara."

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.

Everything went extremely well until Tapia got the idea to lighten up the atmosphere, and started to hum. Eliot thought about telling him how smart it was to irritate a drugged killer with a gun, but decided to ignore him and think about his plans instead. He could only spend fifteen minutes on the Italians, and it would be one lucky try. If he succeeded, great, if he didn't, nothing was lost, he would just move along and continue with the Chileans. He had to go to the place The Pissed One provided him with, to finally see the real street gangsters, the main Chilean force, and the Italians would be just an intermezzo before that. All of the Chileans had to be lured into a fight, as soon as possible, if they weren't engaged already.

Tapia understood his silence as a positive response, because he went from humming to real quiet singing, just at the moment they were entering Don Lazzara's street. 'Love is in the air, everywhere I look around… love is in the air, every sight and every sound…And I don't know-'

Eliot turned to look at him, in total consternation, and Hummer slid to the side and went off the road, barely stopping a few inches before a street light pole.

"Ouch!" Tapia gasped.

"Are you completely out of your mind!?" he growled at him, pissed off.

"Why? For singing? What's wrong with singing? You could just say you want me to stop, you didn't have to throw us off the road!"

"Shut up already!"

"Okaaaay... You could ask more-"

Jesus. This idiot was completely unaware that he sat next to a guy with voices in his head that were screaming to kill him. It wasn't a quarrel anymore, both of them agreed that Tapia had to die, one way or another.

"Just. Shut. Up," he whispered, desperately trying to dismiss the red hue that was coloring everything around him. He stared at the man, allowing his paranoia to research him, trying to find what was hidden beneath that naïve face, what dangerous, murderous quality he had to have to be Villacorta's lieutenant but either Tapia was a way better grifter than Sophie, or he was unable to see it. He returned his gaze with wide open eyes. Fuck.

Eliot closed his eyes for a few seconds, and then slowly returned the Hummer to the street.

Don Lazzara's house was at the end of it. Tapia gave him the address and all the info he had, but he didn't know that he draw them to told street, and why. He drove by slowly, noticing the cameras that covered the street before the house; when he turned around and went back again, the Hummer would be caught on the recording, both front seats.

He put on the green jacket with a hood that would cover his face, and all that would be recorded would be Rojas's Hummer, and Tapia in the other seat – no connection to the team, just to the Chileans.

That also meant that Tapia would be dead man walking from now on.

Eliot put away the Lady Killer's gun with the silencer and took Alejandro's, turned the car at the end of the street and went back, slowly.

"What are you doing?" Tapia whispered, suddenly pale.

"Making noise." Eliot glanced towards him, noticing the disgusted and terrified look in his eyes while he observed the nasty looking weapon. No, this man wasn't a killer.

He pulled up the hood, covering his face before he got closer to the cameras, and at the last second changed his mind and pulled Tapia down, bumping his nose on his knees. Surprised, the Chilean gasped and yelped, but he broke off when Eliot stretched his left hand through the window and emptied entire the magazine into the car parked in front of Don Lazzara's house. He wiped the gun and threw it onto the street, and drove off. No panic attack this time. Good.

"Gah!"

"You're a very eloquent person, Tapia."

"Gah!"

"You sound like cat throwing up hairballs."

"Gah... gunpowder. That smell makes me sick."

Eliot rolled his eyes, and immediately realized how big that mistake was, because the road turned over on its axis, and divided itself into three different paths, every single one in a different color. He barely managed to stop them before hitting a row of parked cars; if the air bag was activated, it would squash him like a bug. He closed his eyes and rested for a while, waiting for the dizziness and nausea to pass.

"Well, that helped," a resigned voice came from the right.

He really needed a car with a real trunk.

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.

"If you try to escape again, I'll find you and kill you," he said to Tapia after the long, silent drive to the part of the town he knew very little about. The Pissed One told him there was one of the biggest gathering places for Chileans, somewhere in the abandoned industrial buildings, on a block full of ruins and old warehouses. The quarters that surrounded the area were notorious themselves, but other gangs were in charge of those. Street dealing of cheap drugs was too small for the Chileans.

Tapia just smiled and wriggled his fingers, showing him that that was the only part of his hands he could move. Eliot had wrapped the duct tape around his shoulders, binding him completely to the back of the seat.

"I suggest you do not scream for help." He glanced around over the ruins, dirt and abandoned houses. If nothing else, the green and red graffiti should have told him this was Chilean territory. "Something could crawl out from the holes in the ground and answer your calls."

"Erm… when will you be back?" Tapia asked, following his glance.

"Fifteen minutes. Be here." With that he closed the door and went into the shadows. It would take at least half an hour, though he knew where they were exactly, but he had to finish the Italians first. When the Hummer disappeared from his sight, he took one of the untraceable phones; this one was green; and called one of the numbers Tapia provided.

"Good evening, Don Lazzara," he said politely. "I'm calling in the name of Renan Villacorta; he wants to apologize for tonight's unfortunate chain of events."

"Sending Rojas to shoot my car is not unfortunate, Voice of Renan Villacorta. It's tragic."

Damn, he should record this conversation. When the head of the Italian mob called something tragic, in such an, oh, so sweet voice, that meant it was…well, tragic.

"Yes, it was a tragic accident. I'm sure you are aware of tonight's strange events all over town. My boss wants me to tell you that it wasn't his intention to start any quarrel with the Italians, his order was misread. We are now extremely busy with different attacks, and mistakes happen. As a sign of a good will, he is willing to reconsider the territorial dispute over Tapia's casino. In return, he asks only for your neutrality in the current events."

The silence at the other end of the line was long, but he knew better than to say more.

"I shall think about his offer."

And that was it, the line was dead. Eliot almost smiled. Knowing the Italians, this should be enough to start them. After poking the Chileans to see their weaknesses, direct confirmation of that same weakness wouldn't be omitted. Villacorta had just said to the head of the Italian mob that he is in trouble, and he can't handle the Italians. Even if nothing happened, tomorrow would be an interesting day for Tapia's casino when the mob came to take it over – the fight would be inevitable, and Villacorta would be accused of preparing a trap.

Damn, it would be great if someone killed that son of the bitch – if someone else did it, no one would remember the five grifters that were sentenced to death. But if Eliot Spencer killed Villacorta, whoever took his place would have a duty to avenge him, if not a wish. And everything would just continue, They would never be free and safe.

And it would be perfect if it happened _before_ the morning, he sighed trying to walk in a straight line. He knew that the chances for that to happen were none to zero, and that it was just wishful thinking – Villacorta was still too strong and it was impossible to reach him. His web was still impenetrable, no matter what he had done.

If Nate managed to use one little opening, it would be only a small chance to finish this. It would give hope, it could give a result, but it wasn't the final solution. They couldn't be sure that this wouldn't continue, even if everything went well.

And that was the main problem here, because _he_ knew what to do… but he didn't know if he would be able to do it, to lead it to the end.

Well, getting killed in a slam certainly wouldn't help it, he thought returning himself into the now, to the dark and ruins. He wasn't so far away now, and he had to be careful. Putting a silencer on the Lady Killer's gun - he had no idea why the hell he called it that, instead of simply a S&W M&P9C - would be a smart move. He had one gun and seven bullets left, and before he got another gun, he had to be very economical.

It was a simple scout, in and out, just to confirm their position before he got back and found a way to bring the Mexicans directly there. If that didn't work, he'd think of something else, maybe draw those guys after him into the Mexicans. One way or another, he-

He almost bumped directly into a group that emerged around the corner, heading for the meeting place, and they didn't see him only because they were arguing, and his hood covered his face in the dark.

That was close. He stayed frozen until they passed him by, only few meters away, and then went after them, keeping a solid distance. He could find his way through the small streets, meadows covered with garbage, and ruins, but they would lead him directly to their place.

It took five more minutes before they reached an old repository; one entire wall was missing, revealing piles of scrap metal and the remains of something that looked like old jib cranes. Ten bikes were parked in front of it, and he could see the silhouettes of cars in the pale light that was coming from inside.

That should have been enough, but he wanted to see how many of them were in there, and what they looked like, so he used the cover of the darkness and got as close as he could, right across the vast empty space in front of the missing wall.

At least forty of them. They were preparing for the move, so he couldn't stay there long, yet it was useful to see how they acted when they meant business. Most of them had had military training in the past, and it was visible in the way they gathered, collected stuff, gave and obeyed orders – there was no mess, no backlash in their interaction. Efficiency at its best.

Most of them wore hoods and caps, and only one bald head was sticking out. The only familiar face among many unknown. Gary Barclay, the second lieutenant. He looked dangerous even in the sterile surroundings of the spa that the Irishmen attacked, just by sitting and thinking, and doing nothing; here, among the piles of scrap metal, he looked… alive. He moved with a grace strange for a man of that mass. He was the only man in a suit, but in the midst of all the dangerous-looking street gangsters, only he was radiating sheer force with every steady, elegant step he took.

This one had to be avoided at any cost; even at full strength, Eliot would have had serious trouble in knocking him down. Grace meant speed, deadly speed, and in combination with that mass, he was practically unstoppable.

Eliot had seen enough, there was no need to stay here any longer, and he slowly retreated. It wasn't as if he had any other option than to retreat slowly; he had seen snails with more energy. Just the thought of returning all the way to the Hummer made him even more tired, but all that hiding and watching took time, and time was something he was very short of. At least, he'd use that return to finish all the plans and start another fight. It was easier to think while walking than driving, his concentration was almost spent.

"Hey!" The shout came from the left, very near.

He turned around with his gun ready, but suddenly froze when he saw the man that was aiming at him.

The almost similar situation with the Irishman reminded him of his hallucinations – how he could be sure this wasn't one of the team, armed for protection, and his mind turned them into a Chilean? They were crazy enough to show up here, for one reason or another, even without knowing he was around.

When a shot sounded loudly in his ears, the bullet flying mere inches left of his arm, he just sighed. He had just ruined an opportunity to retreat quietly with this stupid hesitation. He shot the man before he could fire again; a silent plop that wouldn't have alarmed anybody.

Too late to dwell on mistakes now. Alarmed voices, the sound of running, yelling, and sharp orders were coming behind him when he retreated into the first dark passage he found; the hunt was on.

So much for rule number five; every damn thought about Those Idiots almost got him killed.

He couldn't escape from here; he could barely walk and if he tried to run he was risking falling after only a few steps… but they weren't the only ones with military training. A long, long time ago, he had led men like these, and there was nothing they could do to surprise him.

He found the perfect place after a few seconds; the deepest shadow in a ragged, half ruined wall. The dark green jacket, and dark suit beneath it just merged into one irregular shape when he rested his back against the wall and lowered his head to hide his face.

The hunters that chased their prey never expected it to stop running at the first shadow it reached; a few seconds passed before they stormed into the passage, swept through it, and disappeared in the darkness at the other end. He remained still. They knew how to chase; only five of them passed by him, they divided in small groups and dispersed all over the terrain.

They'd comb everything, he had to get going.

It was a dance of blind men; the dimmed lights of the nearby highway were barely enough for him to see the next step, but they were in the same darkness. And five men made much more noise than one, who didn't want to be heard. Half of the time he just listened and moved from cover to cover anticipating their routes.

At the beginning he managed to hold a course in his head, to know roughly where he was in relation to their place, but after too many turns in every direction, he was completely lost. And it showed him the state he was in much better than his unsteady steps and labored breathing.

He was disoriented and confused, and he could only predict his next few steps. The map he had in his head was a mess and it was useless, he could only go on, having had no idea of where he was going. Two times he almost got caught; one of them even shot at his shadow, right at the moment when he thought he maybe managed to leave them far behind. That shot brought them all, from all around, into a closer circle, again too close.

Something like this would have been extremely entertaining any other day, he thought when he almost fell, when the buzzing covered every sound, and the dimmed lights turned into complete darkness. He had to concentrate on getting one foot in front of the other, and it became a complicated action that had to be thoroughly thought about – at that point he realized that was it, he had to stop. _Six bullets spent, six more to go_.

He sat by a wall and checked the gun, waiting for the first to show up. His fingers were strangely numb, and too quick of breathing left the taste of blood in his mouth, warning him that he overdid this shit way too much. He knew he would make more mistakes as time went by, but mistakes didn't drive him mad, it was the stupidity of it.

He had no idea where he was – even the highway was left somewhere behind, or before him – he was surrounded by forty Chileans plus Barclay, and he couldn't move.

He waited.

Then he waited some more.

After ten minutes the waiting became resting, and his breathing slowed down. He closed his eyes and concentrated only on listening, but a deep silence was all around him, there was no footsteps, no sound of running. Nothing.

He slowly got up. That little rest didn't bring back his ability to orientate, he still had no idea where he was, but it seemed that the Chileans decided they couldn't lose more time on one man when there was so much work to do all over the town. They were needed elsewhere.

That didn't mean they hadn't left someone to watch, somewhere in an ambush, so he carefully walked away, ready to shoot at the first sound. He chose a direction and just followed his nose.

To feel helpless anger was counterproductive, but he couldn't help it; this shit might ruin everything. He had no means to find the Hummer again, he had six bullets, was lost in an unknown part of town, who knows how far from anything he could use to return to the game, he had lost almost an hour, if not more, and he was literally decorated with different phones which were useless as well. Calling a taxi? Of course. He only had to provide the address.

The worst of all, and very dangerous, was that the Chileans had surely found the Hummer in their search, it wasn't parked very far away. In fact, they couldn't miss it. And that meant they'd found Tapia who was now singing everything he knew about his doings. Which wasn't much, but it would certainly be enough for Villacorta to place him right in the middle of tonight's events, the thing he had carefully avoided so far.

He should have disposed of the Hummer long ago, it had served its purpose; a car with a normal trunk would be perfect to put Tapia in it, and he wouldn't have to worry now. He could find some drunken teenagers and give them the Hummer to drive all over town, and – he stopped that thought in the middle, and stopped walking as well.

There was something awfully wrong in that thinking, but he couldn't nail it down, and it took him almost a minute before he figured out that he expected the Hitter to start raging about putting teenagers in danger. _What damn danger?_ He had to deeply concentrate to come to the answer – everyone who was driving Villacorta's lieutenant's car could be killed either by the Mexicans, the Irish, and so on, and on…The other two had no objections about that move, and he realized he was listening to one voice that wasn't there anymore. And if the Hitter wasn't there anymore, who the hell thought about that danger in the first place? Fuck, he was a mess. He'd never be able to walk out of it sane.

_And where the hell was he_?!

The darkness turned into red again as his rage grew, and he carefully put the gun in his pocket, to stop himself from shooting all six bullets into the walls and garbage. _Calm down, idiot, and start to think, for a change_.

Well, thinking got him here in the first place. One thing was certain – he wasn't in Chilean territory anymore, the graffiti was different. He went closer to one wall where he perceived something like drawings – the colors were different as well. Blue, red, orange.

It reminded him of something and he risked a little more light, and used a phone to see the letters. It wasn't Cyrillic… it was very distinctive alphabet. Great. But it wasn't useful, it couldn't tell him where to go.

He concentrated once more, and the only thing that he came up with was calling Hardison with the silver phone to tell him where the hell he was. _That_ would be hilarious. Or, even better, he could call Villacorta with the same phone and ask him to locate him – that brought him to the very edge of hysterical laughter, and he tried to remind himself about the rule that forbade laughing. Yeah, right, it would be cool if he remembered what number that rule was.

_Where the hell was he_?! He swayed, disoriented again, and the street started to slowly move before his eyes. Jesus, even suppressing the laugh was tightening his chest, making breathing almost impossible.

He leaned on the wall, waiting for the nausea to pass, and closed his eyes.

"Hey!"

_Not again, dammit_!

He couldn't see where the man was, nor he could tell by the voice… everything sounded strangely far away. He decided to let him come closer, and _then_ kill him.

"Don't move! Empty your pockets!"

_What the hell_… he opened his eyes when he heard that voice. _A very distinctive accent_.

There was four of them, coming closer in semi–circle. _Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh. _

"Armenians, right?" he rasped. "Nice to meet you."

"You'll change your mind very soon." The one with the gun came closer, studying him. "Who are you? A cop?"

He risked a deeper breath, and looked up. The sky in the east was turning into soft gray.

And he was still alive.

"I come in peace." He managed to suppress a chuckle, and straightened himself up.

He slowly raised his right hand, with an opened palm, and solemnly said, "Take me to your leader."

Maybe _he_ couldn't laugh, but it certainly didn't stop the two voices from rolling all over his brain in helpless laughter.

There was no one who would cry.


	29. Chapter 29

**Well, we're almost there. This Chapter, and Chapter 30 that will follow ( Next Friday, I hope, if everything goes as planned), are still introduction to the finale that will begin in Chapter 31. **

** I hope you'll understand then why was necessary to go through this night so thoroughly, and what I was trying to do.**

**After that huge Finale, epilogueS will be huge as well... unless I snap completely and kill them ALL, shrink their heads, and ride into sunset with Villacorta, who is, surprisingly, totally cool bad guy. Rich, handsome, merciless, and winning... and the most important, he DOES what I tell him to do, the thing I can't say for those five idots who are trying to make MY Chapter 31 a mix of Rundown and Frame up jobs. When I tell him to say 'yes', he simply say yes.., he doesn't have _great ideas, why don't we try... *insert something utterly insane*._  
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**If you've ever watched Pink Panther movies, just remember inspector Dreyfuss ( RIP), and you'll know my state of mind.  
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**The fact that I'm rambling here could be a clue, too.  
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**Thank you for your patience, btw, and your constant support that kept me writing this.  
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***neurotic author out***

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Chapter 29

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Parker was starting to have trouble with monitoring the police and 911 channels at the same time, so she had removed headset and let them all listen to the channels, occasionally translating and explaining the police codes, the reporting of many little crises, attacks, shootings and explosions all over town.

Nate had told Hardison to divide the attacks while putting them on the map; those that were initiated by other cartels and gangs he colored light blue and the Chilean counterattacks in bright red. The ones police couldn't identify he painted in yellow.

They were following the Hummer which had been spotted on a camera, and Hardison was busy with an ambush. He didn't explain what exactly he was doing, but Nate let him do his job, knowing it was the best he could do. If the hacker had an idea, they had to leave him alone to do it.

Nate let Sophie drive again, he was too busy looking at the map that was filling with little lights. He stared at the red ones until his eyes hurt, counting them all over.

The alarmed voices that were playing in the background were singing the song of chaos and death, with every single call and report.

"Hold on!" Sophie's scream caught him unprepared; when she did a U turn in the middle of the road, he flew into the other side of the van, slamming into the door with his hurt leg, missing Parker by inches. Hardison caught two monitors at the last second.

"What the h-" a long burst from some machine gun cut off his words, and he quickly jumped into the front seat. Sophie was avoiding a big black car that had intercepted them. He didn't need to see the graffiti all over the car to know who they were. "Get down!" he shouted to Hardison and Parker, but bullets went over the van this time.

The car that chased them was a lot faster than Lucille, and in just a few seconds the Chileans managed to align with them, making them the perfect target. Sophie just glanced at the car, waiting for the hands with the guns to stretch from the opened windows, and with a vicious twist of the wheel, slammed the van into the side of the car, forcing the other driver to quickly withdraw, giving them a little space.

"Another try in five seconds! Hold on!" she said, preparing herself for another impact, but when the car tried again, they all heard a machine gun that wasn't fired from the car.

Nate watched as the Chileans swerved on the road so close to them that Sophie barely avoided a collision, and then disappeared from their sight, left behind them.

"There's another one approaching, be ready!"

"No, wait, slow down." Nate touched her hand on the wheel, watching the rear mirror and the car that was closing in on them.

This one was dark blue; the windows were open as well, but no guns were seen as the limo slowly slid up and aligned with them in the same position Chileans had been in. It remained in that position for a few seconds, long enough for the men inside to observe them. Nate held Sophie's arm on the wheel, not making any sudden moves, keeping his other hand visible, showing that they were unarmed. For five seconds the men stared at them, without any expression on their faces, until one of them tilted his head to politely nod and smile. One hand in the dark blue suit touched the driver, and limo sped up and left them on the empty street. They both started to breathe again when the car dissolved into darkness.

"Who the hell are they?" Sophie whispered.

"Don't want to know," Nate murmured. "As long they hunt the Chileans, they can be whatever-" A phone ringing cut off his words. "Listening." He had to move it away from his ear when the loud sound of gunfire came through it. Hardison put it on speaker and again they heard bursts of machine guns.

"Patrick?"

"I'm here… just a second." They waited, breathless, until they heard the slamming of something that quieted the shots. "Yep, I'm here," Patrick said. "We are about to stop a pretty big fight between the Chileans and a group of Armenians in amok."

"God." Nate closed his eyes for a second, and slowly inhaled. "Those Armenians… are they wearing expensive suits, perhaps?"

"Nope, not these. You saw someone new, in suits?"

"No, just… guessing. In fact, yes, maybe… if you see them, be careful. Just in case." He thought a few seconds. "Patrick, I'll call you once, maybe before the morning, I'm not sure exactly when. When I call you, I need you to come, no matter what you are doing. Take a few men you can trust, and be ready."

"What's up? It's almost dawn, Nate."

"I can't tell you now… but if you ever trusted me, trust me now."

"I'll be there."

"One more thing… when you finish with that fight, can you send someone to check my apartment and McRory's bar, to see if there are still Chileans waiting for us?"

"Nope. But I can ask the patrol that's already there in that quarter, some mess with the Irish from your neighborhood. They'll check when they finish with that, and I'll send you a message later. Planning to go home soon?"

"Sort of. See you later. And take care of yourself."

He ended the call and sighed. While he spoke with Bonnano, one more red dot showed up on the screen.

"What, exactly, are you preparing, Nate?" Sophie asked slowing down. "I see you're cooking something, but I have to tell you, you are still missing the main ingredient here. In case you didn't notice, we haven't found him yet."

"I owe you a few answers. How I knew he'd do this, and not just go for quiet assassinations, what you all thought he'd do."

"It's about the time," Hardison murmured. Nate noticed that the hacker didn't stop his quick typing, and his eyes were glued on the small images from street cameras on one screen.

"Because that wouldn't have been of any use, and he knew it. Killing Villacorta would just put one of his lieutenants in his position – remember, they knew that Eliot Spencer left the hospital – they would know he had done it, no matter that he wouldn't leave any trace. The hunt for us would continue, this time much worse. Besides, he would avoid killing. He would kill if he had to, but it wouldn't be the first choice, the first solution."

"That doesn't explain how you knew he'll start _this_ chaos."

"He had an army to fight against, Sophie. What do you do when you don't have one? You borrow, steal, or buy someone else's. Haven't you all watched his fight on the warehouse recording?"

The silence after his words showed him that they were trying to connect what he said, and that it wasn't going to happen. "Hardison, put it on the small screen."

"I don't want to watch th-"

"You don't have to. I'll tell you what happened there, and what's happening tonight. And then you'll understand why I said he didn't have to go _back_ into military mode to do it."

Hardison sighed and obeyed, turning away from the monitor, towards his street cameras.

"There were four of them. It's the same when you fight an army, and four opponents," Nate said when Hardison started the footage of the fight. "He is not fighting them, he is _using_ them as weapons against each other. It's a dance, not a fight. Here, this short part is all that it takes to explain it… he threw the first one on the second, and it stopped his coming at him. He hit the third, and he staggered in front of the fourth. The second one came closer, but only to be hit and used as a shield from the fourth. He even used his hand still holding the gun to throw it in the face of the fourth. After that, he threw him on the floor, into the legs of the first which sent that one to the floor too. Here, he placed a tracking device, making that one useful for later, and hit him to fly into the third one… Do I have to continue? He did with those four, what he would do if they all were units on a battlefield, with him as the fifth one. Turn it off, Hardison."

"He had told me," he continued, "that Villacorta's strongest weapon is his control of everything, it's his priority. And he also told me about rearranging those priorities. He had too little time to go inside and try to repeat this fight inside the Chilean forces; that would take much more than one night, Divide and Conquer takes time to be played in full strength. So, he used shortcuts. Instead of making enemies inside the Chileans, he simply took ones that were ready, already in set positions. He couldn't make chaos amongst Villacorta's army, so he had to apply one around them. And now, Villacorta's priorities are rearranged."

"Okay, I got it," Hardison said. "But I don't see how that… rearranging his priorities cleared the way for us – as I can see, that damn web is deadlier than ever. They just shot at Lucille!"

"You'll see," Nate smiled. "It's still not the time for that, you'll have to wait."

"Typical," came the harsh response. The hacker sighed. "I have something, I think I'll be able to jump over a few steps. For now, following the green dots when the cameras caught him, is not enough, he's constantly a few steps ahead of us. When we get closer to the last dot, he has moved, and the best we can do is to be sure we are in the same part of town… not to mention that the coverage is not that good, I'm losing him all the time. I'm keeping all the cameras that I can hack activated, and I was spreading that net, making circles. I located him entering one of those circles, and instead of following him through it, I wait for him to exit, and we go directly to that spot. But, I have one circle, not so far away, that he entered awhile ago, and he hasn't exiting yet. He stopped. We can be there in a few minutes. If he leaves, the cameras that surround it will record that, and we'll go directly there. Very close."

"Perfect. Sophie, step on it, Hardison, send her the coordinates. Can you do one more thing while monitoring that circle?

"I'll manage."

"Call your delivery service – everything from the new apartment, including the hospital bed, have to be transported into my apartment as soon as Patrick says it's clear."

"Oh, wait," Parker jumped in. "We have a 604, I haven't heard that for years. It's code for Throwing missiles. It seems those Armenians added a little flavor to this."

"Great, Parker," Hardison sighed. "Just what we needed. Nate, what's up, why transporting the bed?"

"Because we're in trouble. Every single hospital in town is full of wounded and dead by now. And their escorts. You've seen what happened in Wheddon hospital, and this quickly escalates. When we find Eliot, if we take him to the any hospital, he's dead. And this time we won't be able to stop it, forget it. We can't take him directly into the hands of the Chileans, Irish, Mexicans, Armenians, and who knows how many more that we don't even know if they're involved. Every hospital in town is a war zone now, full of people that want to kill each other, because he pushed them into it. If any of them saw him…"

"Fuck," Hardison whispered. "I hadn't thought of that."

"But, you have one more ingredient you can add to this dish, while we wait for the main one," Sophie said with a smile, and Nate nodded, returning the smile. Then he took his phone and hit the speed dial.

"Good morning, Betsy."

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Eliot's phone said that the sun would rise at 6:19. Before that, he had one hour of semi darkness and still dark shadows that should be used wisely, but his mind was blank, his brain hurt, and he had no idea what to do next. When he finished his talk with Aghesanter, the one-eyed, old boss of the Armenians, he couldn't even count in the right order all that he had done, and not to mention thinking about some future complicated doings.

Aghesanter gave him two Armenians to take him to his car, or to take him where he wanted if they couldn't find it – it seemed that good first impressions went both ways. He guided them, trying to find something familiar in the surroundings. He had to find the Hummer to see what was with Tapia; although he was sure that he had been found and released, this time he needed the fact, not just a presumption. That would give him an idea of how much Villacorta now knew.

After fifteen minutes of useless trying to recognize something familiar in the surroundings, he told them to just circle around until they found the Hummer, and closed his eyes. He was already drifting away, and that way they would think he was just sleepy after a long, long night. He couldn't allow them to see how difficult barely staying conscious was.

Finding the nearest hospital would be the wise move, if it wasn't already too late, said the Commander in his head, bored to death. He was very alive in the darkness back in the slam, but he lost interest as soon as the Armenians approached him. The Specialist agreed, continuing with the well elaborated speech about finishing all this because he had already done more than enough.

He was entertained with their thoughts; knowing himself, and accepting himself, was always the crucial thing in every battle he fought – but those two were a surprise. No, they weren't actually… surprising, it was just the point of view. He was distant and separated from them, and he could objectively listen to both sides, thinking his own thoughts at the same time.

The thing that was the most surprising, though, was the revelation that his own inner voices didn't know him, and didn't understand him a bit. Wonderful. So much for relying on them. They were skillful, but they were stuck in the past, and their thinking was strange and long forgotten.

"If this is not strange, I don't know what strange is."

Damn, he had to open his eyes. He found that to be an awfully demanding process, but when he managed to focus on the thing one of the Armenians was pointing at, what he saw got him together in a second.

He couldn't say they'd found the Hummer, but they certainly found one piece of it.

The passenger seat of the Hummer was plodding along the street on two legs.

"Stop the car and stay inside, I think I know who this might be."

He stood in Tapia's way and waited until he almost bumped into him; he was still tied and seat was on his back, the same position he had been sitting in.

"Oh." Tapia straighten himself a little, only enough to peek at him. "You said you'd be back in fifteen minutes! I'd heard shots and thought you were dead and not coming back, so I decided to save myself. Not from you – I was not trying to escape, so there's no need to kill me."

"How long-"

"Friend of yours?" both Armenians closed in at his back, and he sighed. Only twenty minutes ago he pushed their gang on the Chileans, and now he had one of Villacorta's lieutenants right before their noses, as a present. Both voices in his head agreed that was the brilliant solution to his wondering about Tapia's usability – he could give him to the Armenians and seal the deal even more. But, somehow, it felt like tearing George's leaves apart – a thing he just couldn't do to the helpless plant.

"Yep, friend of mine," he sighed in response. "His name is…" His mind froze, he couldn't remember a single male name except dozen different variables of Alejandro, not even his own, any of them.

"Ted Shelby, at your service." Tapia peeked with a smile. "Can you release me now? Those who tied up me might return."

The Armenian looked at him and he nodded, and in the minute Tapia was cheerfully stretching his back.

"Excuse us for a minute," he waved to Tapia to follow him few steps aside.

"Why didn't you tell them you're hostage, and ask them to release you?" he asked only to check, he knew the answer.

"They are Armenians, you idiot. They would eat me alive if you told them I'm Chilean. I must say, your itinerary tonight seems very interesting. What will happen if I tell them-" Tapia thought for a second. "Nah, I can't think of anything to tell them that will put you in trouble and save me."

"Where's the Hummer?"

"Few blocks right from here. I escaped at the last minute – you were right about the things that could crawl out of the holes. I saw them, they were sneaking in the shadows. I was only one hundred meters away when I saw them getting in the Hummer and looking all around; can't imagine what would they do to me if I haven't freed myself."

Tapia had no idea he hid from his own men who could take him to Barclay; Eliot spent a few seconds thinking about the huge amount of luck that he had just spent – everything could have been destroyed. He rubbed his forehead, trying to think.

"Friends of those two?" Tapia glanced towards Armenians.

"Yep, probably."

"What shall we do now?"

_We?_ And in what part of tonight did he start to discuss matters with someone who was supposed to be just a half-dead body in the trunk before he thought of the most useful way to kill him? He thought about reminding Tapia that he was a Chilean lieutenant, the same Chilean whose cartel swore revenge and was trying to kill them, but it hit him when he realized that Tapia wasn't the one who should be reminded of that. Tapia was just going with the flow, choosing the lesser of two evils, simply hoping to survive the night. It was _him_ who was problem here.

Yes, what would _they_ do now, indeed?

If he was in Barclay's place, he would made an ambush around the Hummer in hopes of catching him when he returned for it, or blow it up to chase him into the open on foot, and force him to find something else to drive – whatever, the Hummer was now completely compromised and useless for him.

"Now, those two will drive us to your place, and we'll take your Lamborghini. You'll sit quiet. If you say just one word in that car, I'll have to kill all of you. Is that clear?"

Tapia frowned, thinking. Eliot knew he was trying to figure out why he would kill the Armenians as well, and that was exactly what he wanted.

"I don't understand any of this," Tapia murmured, going back to the car. Eliot just moved his jacket, showing him the gun at his belt, and he closed his mouth and hurried.

He wasn't sure the distant sound of an explosion was the Hummer being blown up, or the Armenians doing something useful to the Chileans.

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Driving through town in the upcoming dawn revealed the strange events that had been going on all night. The streets were almost empty. Every few minutes they were passing police and ambulance cars, heading in all directions, and the sound of distant, and not so distant gunfire could be heard almost constantly.

Tapia was sitting like a statue, only his eyes were moving, but Eliot couldn't allow himself to relax and stop watching him. They were in the backseat, the Armenians were sitting in front, and no one spoke.

Tapia sank in his seat only when they entered his street, and he saw the remains of his Lamborghini. The explosion had destroyed half of the street. His face was almost green.

Eliot tapped the Armenian on the shoulder and gave him another address, not so far away. They were just ten minutes from McRory's bar, where he left his Challenger parked three – no, now four days ago, when they went with Lucille to finish the last job.

It wasn't a clever move and he knew it, but he couldn't plot mayhem in the back seat of a taxi, with Tapia in a large bag beside him. He needed a car, and though it was stupid to continue this in the car that could be directly connected to him and the team, he had no other options left. At least not now, when time was running out.

He regretted forbidding Tapia to talk, because he was drifting away again, with the voices whispering nonsense he didn't want to hear. He had nothing concrete to concentrate on, and every thought was heavy as if he had to pull it from the mud. He checked his watch – seven hours had passed ten minutes ago. He was now officially dead. _Congratulations. _

Perhaps the Commander was right with his suggestion about the hospital.

When the Armenians left them in the street – he gave them an address one street behind McRory's, not wanting them to connect the bar to him – he had to steady himself before trying to _walk_.

The two main problems were in a close race: blood loss, and the filling of his lungs. His calculations about blood loss, no matter how inaccurate they were, were a solid base, nothing more. He knew the ordinary prognosis couldn't be applied to him – not once he was able to _run_ with the same wounds that knocked other men down. It would finish him in the end, of course… but that particular end could be prolonged. This other shit was worrying him much more. His breathing was a ragged wheeze that he barely managed to hide, only because it was already too shallow… and it was getting worse.

It was a good time to stop deceiving himself. He could pull off one more move to be sure all the Chileans were engaged, maybe the Mexicans again, but that was it. With all the time he had lost with this last fiasco, he had no idea how things were going, and if it was enough.

Whatever he did, it wouldn't be enough. There would always be one more move, one more try, one more step that he could take, and he had to stop that sequence. The morphine's whispers were not convincing anymore, he knew he came to the end of his strength. Merely standing was difficult.

_Get started, don't quit_. Damn, he had to learn how to quit. How to stop.

If he spent all his remaining strength on one more try to draw the Mexicans onto the Chileans again, he would die, he wouldn't be able to wait a few more hours to finish Villacorta. The only thing that could end this. But, nothing could guarantee him that he would live those hours anyway, and that way he would at least do the last useful thing with the Mexicans.

Do something, and die, or spare his strength for something bigger, and risk dying anyway before it even happened? _Choices, choices_.

And what about going to the hospital, saving your life, and then trying again?

He didn't even bother to guess which voice said that, because he didn't have enough strength to explain to them that this had to be finished now, there was no other way. This wasn't a game of trial and error. He had one night, and if he didn't succeed, there was no way he could just repeat it some other night. If Nate used the opening to do his… whatever he did… that would cause serious trouble for Villacorta. In the long run, maybe it would even save Them, if their luck held. But there was no guarantee of that.

He could finish this successfully, if he lived long enough. And if someone didn't kill him before that. And if Villacorta didn't kill him during that. And if something else didn't involve themselves in all this. And if the Mexican, Irish, Italians, Armenians, and probably some Chinese, didn't kill him before he even reached Villacorta. And if… He snapped out of it. He knew all the difficulties, he didn't need reminders.

"That will kill you, you know that?"

He blinked a few times, half ready to growl at the voices, when he realized that Tapia had said it. The Chilean was patiently standing two meters ahead of him, waiting for him to move. Every normal gangster would try to attack him seeing him drifting away, but no, he was stuck with the only specimen who was unable to defend himself. Great.

"What?" he whispered, unable to steady his voice. "What will kill me?"

"The drugs. You were drugged the whole night, I couldn't not notice. You should ask for help."

Okay, that was it. He was thinking about letting him drive, but no. He was going into the trunk. Preferably with an entire roll of duct tape over his mouth.

"You're not very bright, are you, Matio?"

"I'm good looking, very organized, and very good with numbers. I'm so good in gambling business that's almost _legal_." Tapia frowned again. "I'm just not bright in these… violent things. Renan was trying to toughen me up a little, he sent me with the rest of the lieutenants to do something, a while ago… it didn't end well."

"Seriously? I could never tell."

"Nah, now you're sarcastic," Tapia sighed. "They called me Princess after that. I puked on Bugueno. Repeatedly."

This time, remembering earlier, Eliot managed not to roll his eyes. What the hell he was supposed to do with this man? And he couldn't blame anyone, he had brought it upon himself. The chances were, if he put him in the trunk, there'd be no one who could release him and he would die in it. If he left the trunk half open to let some air in, he would escape and ruin everything. If he called Bonnano and gave him Tapia to arrest, Bonnano would push Tapia away and grab him instead.

"Walk," he sighed. "Three meters before me, slowly, and don't look back."

Tapia obeyed without arguing, which was a great accomplishment.

Trying to follow Tapia in a straight line was very interesting test – sitting in the car was lulling him, but walking showed him the shape he was in, in terrifying clarity. The ground beneath his feet was way too soft, and he had to search everything around him, which wasn't an easy task with slightly moving shadows. He was certain that Villacorta had pulled out the men that were waiting for them to show up in Nate's apartment, but the check was inrremissible.

He searched his pockets for the keys he took from the hospital cupboard along with his wallet and other things, and found it after plucking through three hundred damn phones. The keys of the Hummer were there as well and he tried to think about it – throw them away, or keep them? Which would be useful, and which would be dangerous? He had no idea.

"Slow down and stop by that orange car." he said to Tapia who was almost ten meters ahead of him, and he stopped, turning around. The sky was now completely dark gray, and diffused light added more shadows, breaking the dark in the street. The first street light was far away enough to just slightly color Tapia's face in yellow.

"You're gonna kill me now?" he gulped watching him approach. "Why?"

Eliot just sighed, and unlocked the car, then went around it and opened the trunk. Tapia followed his every move with growing fear.

"Get in."

"Won't. You'll kill me."

He had no time for this. He circled around Tapia, making him back off from him until his back almost touched the car, then took the gun with his left hand and pointed it at Tapia's head. Tapia swallowed and closed his eyes, waiting for the bullet.

Perfect. He wasn't sure if he would manage to avoid his blow – he was slow, and fear could make Tapia do surprising things. With his eyes closed, he just squeaked when he hit him with the gun, sending him unconscious directly into the trunk.

Well, that should put on hold his decision about him, he thought when he put away the gun and sent Tapia's arms and legs that were still hanging out in after him. He would close the trunk for now, and think about the air later, and his eventual escape. He couldn't concentrate on that now.

By the time he arranged his arms and legs, and closed the trunk, he was barely breathing, everything was spinning, and he had to lean on the trunk with both hands to steady himself.

It took him almost a minute before he was able to straighten himself without the danger of falling down. It was time to slowly crawl to the front seat, to sit and rest a little, and then decide what to do. To decide if he was able to do anything, heading very quickly to a core meltdown. They were right. He should stop this madness.

And then he made a mistake. He looked up.

He had carefully avoided, even forbid himself, to rise his eyes while he was searching around, and he had no idea why he slipped now, and looked at the windows of Nate's apartment.

All the windows of the A2 apartment were dark; dead holes carved into the wall. And he froze. That shouldn't have surprised him, even alarmed him, it was expected, but before he could think about it, his hand unknowingly reached to his ear, before he was aware of the move. _Fuck_. There was no earbud, no one who would respond to his usual check, no one whom he could ask what was going on, just silence and darkness.

Deep, dead holes. No warmth, no light, just… emptiness.

He stared into it, not paying attention to the Specialist and the Commander who were angrily hissing orders to move, to stop making a fool of himself, trying to convince him that was not important anymore.

Those two couldn't recall the sound of the voices, the warm yellow light – no, they could; but they didn't care. It hit him harder than he thought was possible – not just the simple memory, but also the realization that they didn't understand what it would mean if those windows stayed that way. If he failed.

They weren't fighting for that, they were simply fighting, without understanding why, forbidding him to feel. They couldn't care about the loss, because they knew nothing about what he had. What was his.

And they stopped him.

The realization hit him in a fascinating moment of clarity. They fucking _stopped_ him. They stopped Eliot Spencer, those bastards convinced him that he _couldn't_ continue with this, with their silent, perfidious, poisonous whispers, masked as reason and logic.

But, they certainly were right about one thing, he thought as something pulled back his head, and he felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed at his neck.

He _should_ have moved from here. They were professionals, after all.

But it was too late.

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.

The funny thing was, he did hear one quiet step behind him, but his mind was unable to process two different information at the same time. Too late to snap himself back into the street, too late to start thinking about possible moves.

"Amateurish move, Eliot Spencer, to come for your own car," an unknown voice purred into his ear. The gun moved away, giving him half a second to try… but that second ended when the man slammed his head into the car with vicious force.

His knees buckled yet his instincts overrode the disorientation, and he managed to turn around in one swift move, embedded in his brain. Only to realize how deadly _that_ mistake, that exposing was. And again, _surprisingly indeed_, it was too late to stop it. It took just one elegant blow, one quickly raised knee that slammed into his chest, and sent him flying two meters and crushing into the wall.

And he fell like a broken doll.

The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth when he allowed himself one agonized gasp as the pain clawed at him, paralyzing every move. He curled up, protecting the wound with both arms, and rolled away from another blow that was aimed his ribs, but the wall stopped him, and he just remained there, gasping for air, unable to do anything except to swallow the cry.

"This is surprising," the man said calmly, without any hint of the effort in his voice. Eliot could see him clearly now, the bald head reflecting the pale street light. Barclay. "One hit and you're down. Who are you trying to fool? Get up!"

_Just… breathe_. Eliot tried to focus, tried to say something to buy time, but his jaw was clenched so tight that he couldn't make a sound, much less a word. Fire was spreading through his chest, and when he tried to inhale, Barclay simply disappeared before his eyes.

The darkness engulfed him, and white noise covered and dispersed Barclay's words, yet he could feel his hands being removed without any effort, although he was sure his grip was tight – Barclay dragged him away from the wall into the open. It seemed every other second was black and empty, he was aware only of fragments of time – one moment Barclay was opening his jacket and taking his gun, one moment his steps were meters away.

"So, you _were_ shot, after all. That will make Cuchillo very happy - he almost lost his mind explaining that he _didn't_ miss you. I wonder why you played that little game, just as much as I wondered about you and your doings in general. Renan wasn't interested in my objections, he was too busy with all this going on, but now he'll listen. Able to talk now?"

Not… exactly. But he forced his eyes open and looked at Barclay who was sitting on his heels, head tilted. It was the same relaxed posture he saw the first time in the spa; the threat hidden beneath a calm smile and immobility.

There was something terrifying in the calmness of that man.

"And, you have Tapia," Barclay continued. "Villacorta will skin you alive for that – yes, I'm not going to kill you now. You're coming with me, and you'll sing everything you know about tonight. I'm sure _you_ killed Alejandro, not those Mexicans."

Instead of shooting him at once, he was taking him alive. Instead of shooting, he was talking and explaining. Sounded like a typical, stupid bad guy mistake… but this was Barclay. And he could allow himself to do that, he knew the odds. Four meters away, out of reach, with a gun aimed at him even when he was obviously unable to do anything, except to clutch his chest to stop the agony that was burning its way out.

Barclay could talk freely, talk for hours if he wanted - because he _won_.

_This wasn't supposed to happen_; Eliot stared at him, desperately trying to move, to get up, to… but he could only lie there, curled up, and breathe, and stay conscious, and it took all his strength just to concentrate on that. But he could think, and _it_ was devastating, not the pain. All he had done, just by one mistake, would turn into nothing, if Barclay went to Villacorta, with or without him, and made him to listen to his suspicions. All in vain. _They_ would die.

_All in vain_.

He repeated that, tasted those words in his mouth, mixed with the blood, tried to feel something – rage, fear, anger - anything that would help him to get up and do something, but that part of him was missing, and he knew he was beaten.

It's not a defeat, it's just a tactical retreat; regroup, get together, and wait for another opportunity, the Commander stated calmly, knowing there'd be more chances later. The Specialist just shrugged – failures were a common thing in business, and it wasn't like he was paid for this. It wasn't as if he hadn't done everything he could to save Them. _Shit happens, and people die._

Yes, they were right. About everything.

Full of reason and logic. Fucking clever.

He couldn't move. He just stared at Barclay who was silently watching him, waiting for his response, patient and collected, having all the time of this world.

He couldn't fucking move. And he couldn't fucking _feel_.

_But the windows behind Barclay's back were black and empty_.

When he heard the quiet laughter in his own head, he first thought the Commander was mocking him, but this was a different sound, it silenced them both.

_Beaten_? the Hitter whispered. _That's cool. Always wanted to try it_.

That quiet laugh was so ominous that it made _him_ shiver; it took five seconds before he realized that _he_ was making that sound. Curled on the ground, barely alive, breathing blood, he was laughing.

And Barclay knew, that experienced son of the bitch, _he knew_, and he was on his feet in one quick move, his hand outstretched, the gun aiming at his head. Four meters away.

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He knew there was a reason he had left those two behind, he thought as he slowly relaxed his arms; he was right when he realized they stopped him, convinced him he had to think of his limits - what fucking _limits_? They had no idea who he was. _Who he is_. Who was now - using the pain to push him up on his knees - grinning at Barclay who stood stiff and alert, ready to kill him at any dangerous move. Barclay said nothing, his eyes were narrowed and attentive, finger ready to squeeze a trigger.

"No need to jump," Eliot said slowly, ignoring the urge to cough with controlled, counted inhaling. Ignoring the tickling of the blood in his throat, the pain, everything except the man before him. One shallow breath every five seconds. "You took my gun… you know I don't have another one."

He had almost allowed them to teach him how to fucking _quit_.

_Goodbye, voices_. And he felt alive again, after all those hours. He knew once again for whom he was fighting. And why this man had to die.

And he finally felt fear – not anger or rage – just the fear of knowing what was at stake.

"That's better," he whispered again when he managed to get on his knees and straighten his back, facing Barclay. "They said I should stop, ya' know? To go to a fucking hospital… and _wait_. They said…" he stopped when his voice threatened to give out, and spat blood. Then smiled again. "Just a second."

Pain was ripping through his body when he pushed himself up and he bit back a groan, but he was standing; his vision settled enough to see Barclay taking one more step back. "Five meters won't save you." he whispered. "Do you have a phone, Gary Barclay? I need one more… to add it to my collection." Slowly, he reached in one pocket and took out the first phone. "Ah, the silver one. Called Villacorta with it. Used him to draw your goons onto the Mexicans." With just a quick twist of the wrist, he threw the phone before him. Then he took another one, again slowly.

"It's Tapia's," he went on, forcing the words to come out. "It would take too much time to explain to you… how I'll use it to finish your boss." Another phone followed the first. He swayed and almost stumbled a step forward, but he regained his balance and stood in the same place, not decreasing the distance between them.

"I had to leave Alejandro's phone in Marco's tavern… or else it would have been here too. But, let me give you an unused one – I'll think of the best use for later." The third phone crashed to the ground. "Oops, maybe not. Cheap model, low quality."

"This one, green, I used to call Don Lazzara. Dear Renan will be delighted, don't ya' think?" The green phone hit Tapia's and flew into the wall, crushing with a cracking sound.

Barclay flinched.

_And the Hitter smiled. Lazy, lazy smile_.

"This one, a burner is the connection with the Armenians." Another one went flying.

"This one…" he looked at the cheap phone in his hand, and put that one back. "This one is important. Won't risk damaging it. But, _this_ other one will call the Irishmen to dispose of your body."

He stopped and counted them, smiling. "Do you know why I'm telling you all this?" he asked gently, taking and throwing another one.

"Because it's better to tell me now, than let us draw it from you by force?" Barclay responded harshly, straightening his hand.

"No, Barclay," he smiled, slowly reaching for another phone. Taking the scalpel instead. "Because you're dead," he breathed. It was the same move, the same twist and throw as with the phones, and Barclay didn't have a chance to even blink when he saw something flying at his head, instead before his feet.

The blade almost disappeared in Barclay's left eye, killing him instantly, before his finger could reflexively pull the trigger. He fell backwards with a dull sound.

Good. He didn't squash the phones.

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.

The first step was the hardest thing he did in those three days. He couldn't say the second was any easier, though. Or the third.

He just stood and watched the body at his feet. Barclay who died not knowing that he had killed him, with that blow in the chest. There was no hospital that could save him now.

_It would be one hell of a race_, the hitter grinned again. Very alive.

He couldn't bend, so he had to kneel down to pick up the phones, and it was almost like falling, he barely controlled it. Barclay's too, of course, and Barclay's gun. And Lady Killer's gun. And his scalpel – not that he needed trophies, he just had to get rid of the murder weapon. He was right when he said he'd need a damn bag for all the loot. He didn't disconnect Barclay's phone, just put it on silent mode as he did with Tapia's.

Then he called The Pissed One, while he was still able to talk without choking with every word.

"You still need something… that would secure your position as the new leader?"

"What have you got?"

"Dead Barclay, still warm. Close to McRory's bar. You know the place?"

"I know it."

"If you get here first, it's your kill. Use it wisely."

"What about you?"

"Goin' back to Texas, my job here is done."

There. Problem solved. No one would connect the dead Chilean with McRory's and the team.

He remained on his knees, sitting on his feet just like Barclay had a few minutes ago, and then slowly searched his pockets again, taking the syringe with the last dose of morphine. He carefully wiped all the prints from it, and then shattered it into pieces with a gun. It wouldn't help him, nothing could help him now. It was only driving him mad, making him dismiss the memory and faces of the people he loved. No, even worse… making him decide by himself to dismiss them, instead of using them to keep him sane, and alive.

No more voices, no more strange, unknown people in his head. He knew who he was, who he only was, for good or for bad… and he knew what had to be done. All or nothing. That thought brought back that calm, inner part of his brain that guided him through the hospital.

The deceiving part was over, as well. The other cartels would have to manage by themselves, without his help – he was dead. Before he went down, he had to deal with Villacorta, and all his willpower had to be directed to only that. _All or nothing_.

The ripping pain was stronger than the damn morphine overdose; he didn't bother to imagine the amount of _this_ bleeding – he didn't have to, he felt it. Barclay had killed him, but he was apparently too stubborn to die when someone else said to. He'd die when he decided he should, thank you very much.

Now he would see if Betsy's last advice was something worth trying, and if it could help him in buying more time. He just needed a couple of hours for Villacorta. The overdose would cease, his brain would be just his, _oh what a joy_, and he would finish all this tiring shit.

He slowly reached down and touched the bandages under the shirt. The fire was still burning out through his flesh; it wouldn't stop. The black suit would absorb the blood that flowed and soaked the shirt; that's why he chose something so dark. But the blood that was flowing inside was the thing that would kill him. Hiding _that_ would be an interesting task.

He dared not get up, he remained on his knees, staring right in front of him. _He was so damn tired._

He needed the team now, here, at the end of everything, he desperately needed to remember them.

One more minute of peace and an empty mind, of rest, before he collected all the scattered pieces and rebuilt himself again. Just one more minute of remembering what they'd meant to him. _If you know why, you'll know how._

He always knew he wouldn't simply die, he would get killed, and sometimes he wondered how he'd lasted this long. The team was part of the answer; he could say with certainty that the last five years of his life was a gift from them. They kept him alive.

This was just repaying of that debt. Those five years he didn't think he could have, he'd simply give back.

After all, dying for something good, something he loved, was much better than anything that had been waiting for him. More than he deserved. And for the first time during the night, Eliot knew there was nothing that could stop him from finishing this for good. There was no one who could kill an already dead man.

Nothing to lose anymore – and everything to gain. Four lives that were everything to him.

Death would simply have to wait.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

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Sophie turned off the headlights when they entered the circle that Hardison said the Hummer hadn't yet left, and no one objected. They slowly drove among the ruined and abandoned buildings, ready to turn around at the first sign of danger.

"No wonder I couldn't find any camera inside this circle, and all the working ones are far away," Hardison murmured when he peeked between Sophie and Nate. "This is zombie apocalypse material, people, mark my words! If you see people with outstretched hands that-"

"Go back to monitors, Hardison, you're scaring Parker," Nate said knowing that that statement would make them both look at each other, asking themselves if he had lost his mind, and stop the zombie metaphors that were threatening to continue endlessly.

Unfortunately, that made Parker crawl to the front seat to peek for herself, dragging her leg, eager to see what would scare her, and the hacker squeaked, "See? She's turning into-"

"Hardison!"

"Okay, okay, I was just trying to lighten up the atmosphere, geez."

"Just… do your job. Search. Hack. Type. Something."

"I have nothing to search now, he is here." Hardison's light tone dropped too quickly, a clear sign he was keeping it with an immense effort, and Nate turned to look at him, regretting that he stopped him. "But without any cameras, and if I may say, a very little signs of civilization in general, all we can do is go back and forth and try to find the Hummer."

"You're keeping an eye on the outer cameras, and if he leaves here, you'll see him?" Nate asked a little softer.

"Yep, everything is covered. Just a few cars have gone in and out by now, I won't have problems locating the Hummer."

Nate followed him into the back of the van to check the dots on the map, letting Parker climb up next to Sophie. The thief was restless, and he was surprised how well she was doing by now; her temporary disability must have been driving her crazy.

He looked at all of them: Sophie was rubbing her eyes and he could see the dark circles beneath them when she felt his stare and looked at him in the mirror. Hardison's fingers were trembling on the keyboard; he was dead tired hours ago and his concentration was slipping.

Nate knew it was a mistake to let them listen to his conversation with Betsy at the moment she had asked to hear the numbers in the fourth group of Eliot's papers; they'd gotten a cold, professional assessment that dumped all spirits. _What the fuck was a massive tension hemothorax anyway_? Sophie had almost stopped the van; Hardison stared as if he knew what it might be; Parker was pretending she wasn't listening at all. At the end of a disturbingly long tirade, when Betsy had stated that he was probably dead by now, they'd all heard the 'but'; she paused, murmured something that sounded like 'damn idiot', and said she would come when she arranged with Patrick to drop her, and everything that she needed, at their place.

That reminded them all that seven hours had just passed, the seven hours they believed was the outermost limit he could survive. That was the main reason everybody carefully avoided mentioning why the Hummer might have stopped, and was not moving anymore, in the middle of nowhere.

"Hardison, sort out all the information you have on Villacorta and the lieutenants, find out if there is any connection with them and this place. There must be a reason why he had come here. Cars, phones, everything you can track. We already know he took Rojas's Hummer. What if he took his phone as well? You have the number, can you track it?"

"It would take a couple of minutes, I'll have to override a few-" The loud sound of an explosion nearby shook the entire van.

And after just one hundred meters, and two turns, they found the Hummer. What was left of it.

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.

Nate went to check the burning ruin, ordering the others to stay in the van.

"Nothing. It's empty," he said immediately, and heard Sophie's sigh of relief. He checked everything around it, finding nothing important, and went back into Lucille.

"The last time he changed cars, he burned the orange Toyota to take the Hummer instead." Sophie turned in the driver's seat. "Maybe he did this, to cover the tracks, to leave no traces behind him."

"We still don't know what his next car is," said Parker.

"And we won't know," Hardison said simply. Sophie and Parker turned to him, expecting him to say something about Hardison's objection, but he stayed silent. "I redirected a satellite to cover this area to find the eventual switching of cars, now when we could finally catch him imobile long enough to do it. There was none. I saw a shadow getting out and disappearing in these ruins, can't even say if that was him or not, and that was pretty long ago. If he found a car, he found it somewhere in this radius… and in that time a lot of cars left this circle that I kept monitoring. He could be in any of them. Far away by now. We. Have. Nothing."

Nate watched the hacker who straightened his back and slowly stood up, looking thoughtfully at all monitors before him, with a slightly tilted head. After that he carefully took the first monitor at hand, and smashed it into pieces against the van wall.

He was right when he thought that Hardison's break down would be spectacular; damaging his equipment was something unheard of. He tried to grab him before he could take another monitor and throw it onto the floor, but Hardison ducked, swayed and avoided him.

"Back off!" Hardison hissed, visibly half ready to slam the monitor into Nate's head instead of the floor, but he lowered his hands when Sophie quickly slid between them.

"We'll need those later, Hardison," she softly said, taking the screen from him, but that softness seemed to rile him even more.

"For what?!" he yelled. "Are you people blind?! We can't find him, he is probably already dead, and now we have nothing we can follow… do you understand that?! Nothing! That Hummer was our only trail!" he slammed his hand into the wall, with a sickening loud sound. "I am able to find everything, every lousy motherfucker… except when it's the most important! When one of us is in danger, dying, I – can't – find – him!" He looked around wildly, and turned around, jumping out of the van.

Sophie shot a significant look at Nate, and went after Hardison. _Stay with her_. He received the message and looked at Parker; the thief was sitting stiffly, hugging herself as if she was cold. At least she wasn't able to run. Maybe.

Dear God; Hardison wandering aimlessly through these ruins and the garbage, and Sophie after him – that was screaming for trouble. They had no idea who else may be near. The numerous advantages of working without a hitter, Nate sighed grabbing the bag and taking a gun. "Stay here, and start the van at the first sign of trouble," he said to Parker before he went out after them.

He didn't have to go far; Hardison had just sat by the first wall, twisted into a giant pretzel, clutching his head with his elbows resting on his knees. Sophie stood above him.

"Go away, all of you, and leave me alone," he whispered.

"You think it's your fault we couldn't find him?" Sophie said quietly.

"Last time I checked, that was my job."

"Well, you're damn right. It _is_ your bloody fault," she smirked, leaning on the wall with one shoulder. Nate stood silently when the hacker looked up at her.

"For five years I was waiting for this moment," she continued lightly. "Five long years, to see one of us using everything he had learned from watching the others. Just like you did just a moment ago, when you blocked Nate's hands and turned around in a semi-circle, ruining his balance, leaving him exposed for the blow that should follow. All of that with one elbow, in one second. Does that sound familiar to you?"

"What… I did not…"

"Oh, yes you did. You've learned that from Eliot, not knowing about it." She took a step closer to him. "It _is_ your fault we can't find him, Hardison, because he learned from you, from watching you searching for the lousy motherfuckers, how to go under _your_ radar, how to stay low. And you are the best. What to avoid, where he can be seen, how he can be tracked, all the tricks you used these past five years, he learned watching you doing it. Just like you didn't notice what you did in the van, I bet he doesn't know why he knows where he can be spotted with a camera, and why he avoided that place. You both just do it, without thinking about it."

"And he _is_ using it, right now. That knowledge _kept_ him alive through this night." she went on in a gentler voice. "As long as we can't find him, that means he is _still_ using it, and he is still alive. If he was dead, we would find him, and you know that."

That was enough; Nate slowly retreated back into the van when she hugged the hacker and whispered something almost silent. His presence wouldn't add anything important, it could only hinder Sophie, and a quick check of the surroundings showed him they were in no immediate danger. He pulled out his earbud, leaving them alone completely; they were close enough to the van.

Parker raised her eyes to him, with an unspoken question, still sitting strangely stiff, clutching the wheel with both hands. He almost answered that question with a light 'he'll be fine', but he didn't. No one was, or would be 'fine', until this ended.

The burning Hummer was sorted all out, and he felt almost relieved, knowing what to do next.

"You said you're able to drive," he stated calmly.

"Can you shrink zombie's heads too?" She grinned, that familiar crazy grin that had always caused the rolling of four pairs of eyes. Yet this time he felt an effort beneath it and he looked directly in her eyes, finding again the Parker that had hugged him when he'd bandaged her bruises, finding, for the one short second, the same sorrow hidden deep under the usual crazy smile. And he said nothing, he let her continue hiding it, because he knew that was what she needed now.

"How fast?" he smiled again.

"I can press the pedals with my right foot, no problem, it doesn't hurt. Moving my foot, however, hurts like hell."

"So, if your foot is on the gas pedal…?"

"Yep, no way I could move it to the brakes," she said, with that smile again. "You're the one who should explain that to them, okay?"

"Thought so."

He left her sitting there and collected the pieces of the broken monitor, pushing them out.

Sophie came into the van first, Hardison followed a few steps behind.

"No zombies?" Parker chirped, but Nate noticed her arms were again clutched around her.

"No zombies, mamma." Hardison produced a smile for her, and reluctantly sat on his chair again, turning his back to them all.

Sophie helped in shaking out Parker's pillow and blankets, and in few minutes no traces of the plastic could be found. The time was priceless, yet Nate let those minutes stretch, to give them all a little time for composure, for settling down.

Hardison broke the silence. "Rojas's phone is in Marco's Tavern."

"What?" Nate looked at him.

"You asked me to find their cars and phones. Before the explosion." Hardison explained tiredly – that tone showed him that he too must have been visibly stressed, if the hacker thought he had to spell it out for him. "Barclay's Lamborghini was here, in this circle, and that's probably the cause for Eliot's coming here. He flew by one camera, heading for the upper town, very, very fast. I've lost him after that, but he'll show up again. So much about the cars," he rubbed his face with both hands and stayed in that position for a moment before he continued. "However, their phones show a different picture. Tapia is not dead, he obviously wasn't in his Lamborghini when it exploded. His, and Barclay's phone are together. Going somewhere, doing something, I don't know. Maybe going to Villacorta and Bugueno who are together as well. Or going to attack someone."

"Good. Thank you."

Hardison darted a glare at him. "You're welcome." His response was dry and pissed at the same time, and Nate knew how close to the verge they all were. The toll on their back was a heavy fourth day and the distress he was feeling around him was a thick, suffocating wall. He had to get them together, and he knew there was only one way to do it – shaking them to the point of breaking, one more time.

"Listen to me." Yep, _that_ voice worked, their attention focused on him instantly. Parker turned in the driver seat. "Can we now continue with our work?"

"What do you have in mind?" Sophie asked. "Some new way of finding him?"

"No. We quit the search, we can't find him anymore." Nate smiled at their frozen faces. "We have nothing now, now that we lost the Hummer as a trail. We are leaving Boston."

"Wh-" Hardison tried to form a question, but failed even in the second try. "Wh-"

"You see…" Nate leaned on the wall, in a position he could see them all in a semi circle. "I know where he will be, the exact place, and the exact time, in…" he glanced at his watch. "…exactly one hour and 27 minutes. If he is alive. We have no means to know if he will be alive at that time, so it's slightly unfair to ask... Will you return with me, not knowing whether or not we are coming in vain?"

"You know, you're really annoying with these official questions." Sophie hissed. "Details! Now!"

"If we return, Sophie, we are not returning to walk on the edges of the web, trying to not get caught – no, we are going deep, deep into the middle of it, into the very core. Directly to the Spider."

"Like the attack on the Death Star," Hardison whispered. "Lucille as The Millenium Falcon. Yep, I can definitely live with that."

Or, maybe, shaking them further wasn't such a bright idea. "Erm, yeah, right." Nate glanced at him. "Like I said, if Eliot succeeded in what he is doing, we'll be able to pass. If he failed, we will get strangled in it, and killed. Is that clear?"

"I knew it was Jedi business after all." Hardison murmured. "Bunch of brave rebels fighting the big Evil Empire, and it's the Dark Emperor-"

"Hardison."

"Yeah, clear. All clear," he blinked and exhaled a long breath. "Wait. Okay…web, net, danger, us killed, all clear. But return from where? What leaving Boston? Have you lost your mind?"

"We have exactly one hour and 27…no, 25 minutes to put Villacorta down. And we are losing our time here. Parker, now is the time to use your foot. Take us on I - 90 W highwa-"

It was good thing the blankets and the pillow were now clean, he thought when he crushed on them losing his balance after the violent jerk when the van started. Hardison saved the rest of the monitors that danced all around him.

He kneeled, holding himself with both hands.

"How? And why now?" Hardison went on.

"We could have done it two hours before, when the red dots started to emerge on your map – Villacorta's counterattacks. But I couldn't… I didn't want to leave this search as long as there was a hope we could find him. Now, we have nothing that we can do for him until this time passes, and I'm not going to spend it opening the bodybags in the hospitals. Yes, he might be dead… but if so, he died so we can do this. I won't let _that_ be in vain. We are going to use this opening he has created."

"What damn opening he's created? The streets are now even more dangerous for us than before – all of Villacorta's men are out, armed, shooting at… basically everything that moves, because everything that moves shoots back at them! It's not an opening, it's a damn clusterfuck, there's no way we can get through it! The entire city of Boston is one huge war zone!"

"Exactly."

Hardison just stared at him.

"All of Boston is one large war zone. A carefully arranged war zone, with many little wars that have swallowed and involved everything that Villacorta has and can use. The war zone that engaged and pulled into the chaos every single Chilean. And when you have to use all your armies in the war that someone brought directly to your door step, you have to make a mistake… and leave something else unprotected. Eliot made a whirlpool knowing that everyone's eyes would be riveted on it… except mine."

Hardison drew a slow breath, and let it out equally slow.

"It won't help us. It won't solve anything – but it will cause Villacorta to lose everything that he has, even if he managed to kill us," Nate continued with a smile. "Eliot had told me that I couldn't con a fired bullet. He was right. I can't. But neither can Villacorta."

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.

The morphine was disappearing too slowly from his veins – the poor stuff didn't have much means of traveling in there, and he could almost imagine the little molecules of morphine that were jumping, cursing him, trying to jump over the gaps in his bloodstream.

He slowly raised his right hand, not looking at the right side of the car, and Tapia closed his mouth.

It was his third attempt to say something in the last twenty minutes, but Eliot didn't regret that he let him out from the trunk when he had heard the screaming and tossing. Fighting the morphine was a lot easier when he had someone beside him, when he could concentrate on his simply being there. He wasn't clean yet – the pale shadows had returned at the moment he dismissed all the voices from his head – they weren't around him when there were only two of them. They were following the Hitter. And he knew why.

He was waiting.

Except for the occasional raising of his hand, he remained completely still, staring right in front of him, keeping both hands on his thighs, with his palms up and fingers slightly bend. Every five minutes he slowly looked down to check; they were still not shaking. He couldn't say if it was a good or a bad sign.

Betsy's advice helped with his breathing a little, returning it to the level just before his impact with Barclay, but it couldn't help with his bleeding out. The former was more important now– in this phase, he had to be able to speak, not run. Then he realized how much she would be pissed… dear god, just imagining explaining to her how he got killed almost made him flinch, and it took fifteen seconds before he figured out what was wrong in that sentence. _Focus, Spencer_.

He felt the opening of Tapia's mouth again, and again raised his hand. His tries were more frequent, and maybe it would be less difficult to listen to him, than to move his hand.

"What?" he said, the word coming out painfully rasped. Yep, he should speak as well, to smooth the edge.

"Can you park the car at some different angle? The sun is hitting directly in my eyes, and guess what, I have a _headache_."

Poor Princess had a fucking _headache_. Jesus. He said nothing, he didn't move nor turn his head to look at him. The sun was warm, and he had no intention of moving the car. He was freezing in spite of the fact that he kept a jacket over the suit. Besides, they were facing the park and the small patch of green right in front of the Challenger was helping his eyes.

"You're scaring me."

"Good." Of course he was scaring him. Tapia sat beside a crazy guy with a gun, who was staring down into the meadow, still as a stone. As a matter of fact, he was scaring himself, too.

"You're preparing yourself for something. Killing me?"

"That doesn't need preparation." The gasp that came from another side reminded him of the desperate measures and danger from desperate people. "No. I won't kill you. You're safe. Sit here just for a while, and after that you'll walk free."

Tapia shifted and sighed.

"What are you staring at?" he continued after just two minutes of silence.

"Invisible people. I'm drugged, remember?"

"Are they naked?"

"Wh-" he slowly turned his head to look at him, for the first time. "No. They're dead."

"Oh."

Tapia said no more, and the blissful silence spread again.

He checked his fingers again. Nothing. Slowly, he returned his eyes to the grass in front of the car, keeping them low, only half open. Three small bushes surrounded the grass, shaped like triangles, and he made them a barrier for his eyes. _Just grass, Spencer, nothing more for now. Just grass_.

He should send a text message with instructions to Betsy – all this green reminded him of George and his inevitable withering. The only problem was that she would immediately send that number to Bonnano, and Patrick would find him before this all ended, and he didn't need further complications. Besides, he had more important things to think of right now.

How to entwine all the loose ends.

How to play out every possible move on the board, both the black and white pieces.

How to control the pain and stop it from showing.

How to keep breathing for one more hour.

How to stop realizing what he had done.

How to stop counting how many people died.

How to stop _wishing_ he was already dead.

Yep, one could say he was pretty busy.

The Challenger moved a little when Tapia shifted, trying to sit more comfortably, but it didn't bring the nausea, a sure sign that the morphine was decreasing. The pain wasn't a relevant sign, it remained the same no matter what the amount of morphine he had in himself. He spent the last fifteen minutes on only feeling it, analyzing it, trying to even the edges, and smoothing it a little… the occasional sharp stabbings that came without warning were dangerous. Even completely focused just on the pain, rigid and wary, he barely managed not to wince at the sudden ripping. He had to close it into one ball – a burning ball of red and orange pain whirling inside, with occasional outbursts, like the sun eruptions. Concentration would help him control those outbursts. If he was distracted, he might not be able to hide it in time. If he concentrated a little harder, he might manage to lessen it to simply unbearable, instead of the agony, and he might-

"Dead-dead, ugly dead, dead you've killed, half dead, something else, or all of the above?"

_Thank you, Matio Tapia_. The burning ball disappeared before his eyes with a silent 'plop'. He slowly lowered his eyes, watching his hands. He wished he was able to sigh.

"What's pretty dead?" he asked returning his gaze on the grass.

"What?"

"You said, ugly dead. Where did you see the pretty dead?"

"I was just trying to mask my real question – you killed those people?"

"Nope."

"And you're just seeing random dead?"

"Nope."

"You're not helping."

"Nope."

Tapia heaved a frustrated sigh, and much to his surprise, Eliot smiled. He carefully turned his wrist and looked at the watch. Almost there. And he was still breathing.

The pale shadows were almost invisible now, they were quickly dissolving, but he could still feel their eyes. Tapia had no idea. These weren't the ghosts of the people he had killed. They would come later. They were never scaring him.

Those who were now standing at the edges of his vision… _they_ had the power to destroy him.

"No, Tapia, I don't see people I've killed," he whispered. "I see people I've failed to save."

He slowly raised his eyes from the watch to the wheel, then to the grass.

He kept them on the bushes for a moment, taking a careful deeper breath that stirred the burning ball.

Then he opened them completely, looking above the bushes, and as his eyes rose, the building on the edge of the park emerged slowly from the green that surrounded it, glittering in the morning sun.

He moved his right hand carefully, controlled, and put his sunglasses on.

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.

Thank god it was a Sunday morning, and Lucille wasn't facing dense traffic and jams full of people that were trying to get to work. Hardison was pretty sure Parker wouldn't even notice it, much less slow down because of it, but it was easier this way.

They were all sitting at the back of the van, where the sun was coming only in reflections, and he still felt like they were stuck in the middle of the night that was still haunting them, sticking closely to every one of them, not letting them go.

He peeked outside only once, and was stunned when he saw daylight.

When he returned to the monitors, where all the info that Nate asked for was displayed, he again felt the stirring of the anxiety that shook him when he had noticed the first look that Nate and Sophie exchanged after Nate'd told them where they were going. There was… nothing in it. Two utterly empty stares, without any message and meaning, just two pair of eyes that met for one second. Yet, he knew that was an entire conversation in it.

Nate had called Patrick immediately upon their departure, and Bonnano was on his way, too, just five minutes behind them.

"Nate…" Hardison called reluctantly, and waited for him to draw his eyes from the data. "Without any preparation or any plans, you're planning to take down a guy who outsmarted the FBI and IRS, with their year of preparation, in just one hour?"

"Nineteen minutes," Nate said. His eyes were dead. "We have to calculate traveling back to Boston."

"We entered Worcester, we are almost there!" Parker yelled from the front seat. "Do you want me to stop a block away, just in case?"

"Yes, Parker, that'll be great." Nate was checking the gun as he spoke, and Hardison swallowed. "You two will stay in Lucille. Sophie and I are going in there alone."

"Bonnano clearly said there's twenty Chileans that guard the man, day and night, and you two will just-" Hardison stopped and sighed, then went on quietly. "There _would_ be twenty Chileans guarding him, and waiting for us, if they weren't drawn back into Boston, into the whirlpool."

"Precisely." Nate put the gun in his pocket and smiled, a smile that didn't touch his eyes.

"But what are you going to do? Find the evidence in his papers that will put Villacorta in prison? In nineteen minutes? The FBI combed through all of his papers, for months, and they've found nothing!"

"FBI has aggravating circumstances, Hardison. They are the law, and they have to play by the rules." Nate exchanged another empty look with Sophie. "We are not. We are the bad guys."

"No, Nate, this is wrong… you'll do something wrong, I don't like it."

"No, it'll be only strange." Nate smiled again, the smile cold almost as his voice was. "We have a hitter who is doing the Danse Macabre – I'm thinking of telling him _who_, precisely was the real spider in this play, and whose webs were the most deadly… but I'm afraid he would be just pissed. As usual. And, on the other end, we have the mastermind who is running out of time, who now has only seventeen minutes to bring down a man who may later kill us all. Some sort of postponed revenge for our part."

"Damn," Hardison slowly exhaled. "Leave Sophie here and take me instead."

"Don't be silly," Sophie tilted her head, but she didn't smile, and her voice sounded strangely unknown for a second. "It'll be over in a bit."

Nate sounding resolute and deadly calm was sometimes terrifying thing to watch, Hardison thought watching her eyes… but seeing Sophie cold and stern was… brutal. Seeing Sophie plucking the bag, and taking a gun herself, was… indescribable.

"The thing is…." Nate continued. "Someone has to play out the Occam's Razor, right? And now I only have time for the shortest way from A to B, so it's the best solution. No plans, no cons… a simple in and out. Hit and run."

"We're here," Parker said while stopping Lucille. "Trev Steel's house is the fifth in the row, with a huge yard, that dark yellow one separated from the others. I would check those back yard buildings along the wood, that's the place where his guards-"

"I know, Parker, thank you."

Much to Hardison's dismay, Nate nodded, and they both pulled their earbuds out.

"When Bonnano arrives, keep him here."

Without any further word, they left, leaving him blind, deaf, and scared as shit.

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.

.

The first two minutes Hardison spent biting his nails and searching through all the data they had on Trev Steel, reminding himself of Nate's speech with Bonnano about the man who held all Villacorta's business transactions in his hand, leaving a visible paper trail, full of clean and regular numbers. The FBI's one year long investigation finished as a fiasco; the IRS was helpless. Villacorta was safe, completely safe.

The second two minutes he spent with the door of Lucille half open, listening, expecting to hear gunshots. Or much worse, bursts of a machine gun fire. How could they be sure Villacorta had pulled _all_ of his guards? He would leave at least five, no matter how bad things were going around him in Boston – damn, this sounded like something that Eliot would say, maybe he learned more than he thought. Besides, the night was over, the fights would slowly cease, early morning wasn't a common time for gang shootings, and everything would soon calm down. They'd be back on their duty. He took a gun and a kitchen knife, just in case, and prepared himself for running quickly. And killing, if necessary. Okay, maybe not killing, but certainly shooting and probable wounding of someone.

The third two minutes were interrupted when Bonnano arrived, swore and took the gun and the knife away from him, looking pretty desperate and pissed. He spent those minutes on explaining where Nate and Sophie were, and going around what they were going to do. Bonnano looked like they all felt; spent and pissed off at the same time, with all the traces of the grueling night carved into his face.

"Okay, and now repeat that, slowly," Patrick rubbed the back of his neck, and sighed. "They are going to do _what_? Is tonight something special for your Leverage Inc? Do you have one night of the year reserved for utter madness, all of you, or there's maybe more of it coming my way? Should I prepare myself for the next one, if any of you stay alive for that long? What on Earth he was thinki-"

"No time for thinking, Patrick," Nate's voice sounded harsh, and Hardison almost squeaked, stopping himself at the last moment. He quickly opened the door completely, revealing Nate and Sophie. "Time, Hardison."

"Seven minutes," he quickly checked. "But, what-"

"Patrick, this is Trev Steel." Nate pulled before him a middle aged, fat man, and Hardison just blinked when he saw his eyes glazed with horror. "He would like to ask for your protection, for him and his family. His wife is in the house, and two kids are sleeping upstairs. If I may suggest a safe house first, and then going into a witness protection program?"

Bonnano just stared at him for almost a minute. Hardison knew exactly what he was thinking; the same incoherent thoughts were jumping around wildly in his head, too.

"Protection from what?" Bonnano asked quietly.

"From me." Nate didn't smile, and Steel shivered, taking an unsteady step back.

"In exchange for his safety," Sophie said gently and for some reason, Hardison found her tone more vicious than Nate's coldness. "He is willing to give you everything that the FBI and the IRS couldn't find. Congratulations, Patrick, you've just put Villacorta behind bars. Will you now excuse us; we are in a little bit of a hurry."

"Oh, btw, there are two Chilean…gardeners, that are sleeping in the back building. Maybe you should check on them, too," Nate said while pushing Steel into Bonnano's hands, and jumping into the van. "Move, Parker, I'm driving."

A quiet squeak was heard from the front seat, and Bonnano blinked again. "Well, maybe I should take him away, before he changes his mind."

"He won't change his mind." Sophie's smile was brilliant this time, the most beautiful smile Hardison had seen in ages, and Trev Steel's eyes rolled up and he fainted. Bonnano swore under his breath, pulling the man away from Lucille, waving to his men to come and take him away.

"See you later, Patrick," Sophie nodded gently and got in the van, and Hardison pulled the door shut.

.

.

.

Nate ordered them all to go to the back, to sit in the dark and to try to rest while they could, if only keeping their eyes shut, but Hardison joined him in the front seat, leaving Sophie to sit with Parker. The thief was paler than ever. Driving might have been a pure joy, but it certainly hasn't helped to ease the pain in her leg.

Nate glanced at the hacker who slurped the last drops of the orange poison from the bottle.

"That stuff really keeps you awake?"

The hacker squinted, staring directly into the bright sun that was low, right in front of them.

"What have you done?" he dismissed his attempt.

"Something that the law enforcement agencies couldn't. Scared him and threatened him with his life. And his wife's life. And with the lives of his children."

"You didn't-"

"No, we didn't. But he thought we might, and that was all that took to break him."

He watched the young man processing what he had said.

"Hardison…" he said a little softer. "Never underestimate desperate people."

"You think he might-"

"No. I was talking about Sophie and me."

Hardison thought about it for a while, then sighed. "I guess you're right. But you should have taken me, not Sophie."

"Sophie was the one who broke him. I was playing the good cop at the beginning."

"And what now?" Hardison waved towards Boston, where they were heading.

"We started something that will take a long time to show any results, maybe even months. Patrick will simply make Steel disappear, Villacorta won't know what happened to his accountant, but it has nothing to do with our problems. I've told you this wouldn't solve anything, so just forget it happened at all. Though, if he manages to kill us, you'll have the satisfaction of knowing he is going down soon."

"I'm delighted," Hardison murmured. "And how the hell are we getting out of this shit for good?"

"Two options. The first, Eliot will kill Villacorta."

"And risk even deadlier revenge on us because of that? I don't think so."

"It's all in the context, Hardison. A quiet assassination by Eliot Spencer would result in that, you're right, he won't do that. He'll go to him, politely explain to him that Eliot Spencer doesn't work with that bunch of losers anymore, and that he is there because it's personal, and kill him. Eliot will either be killed by his men, or let himself get killed. The only way to bring closure to this."

Hardison said nothing.

"The second option?" he quietly asked after a minute.

"There is one more thing that may end this, but… it's impossible to say if he is even considering it as an option or not, because I don't have insight in his detailed doings through last night. If he does… well, he is crazy enough to try it," Nate smiled to himself. "Go into the back, Hardison, close your eyes for few minutes, we'll need them very soon."

"You told me about Eliot's options. What about yours?"

"Just one. If he's dead, and Villacorta alive, I'll give Villacorta a real reason for wishing us all dead. He made a mistake – he made this personal."

"If he's dead… you know, I have problems with accepting that as a possibility," Hardison hesitated. Nate's phone rang and the hacker sighed, not finishing what he was going to say next.

"It seems you're not the only one who has problems with accepting that possibility." Nate gave him the sign to go back to the computers. "Good morning, Eliot."

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.

.

Hardison almost stumbled across Sophie, hurrying to put Eliot on speakerphone, but Nate stopped him, showing him his earbud. Eliot might hear the difference in the sound. He continued to drive with one hand, keeping his eyes on the street, knowing they would remain silent whatever they heard, and even if they did say something, he would be the only one to hear it.

"Damn. You shouldn't… are you alone?"

"Yes, they're not around, you may speak." He quickly reminded himself why Eliot called him; Eliot knew that he wouldn't buy the things he'd said to Hardison and Sophie, and that he would know why he had done it. For a few seconds, the only sound from the phone was the chirping of blackbirds in the background. "I presume you're not calling us to pick you up somewhere?"

"Us, Nate?"

He bit his tongue, reminding himself to be more careful; the relief was making him reckless. "Cut the paranoia, will you? They are with Bonnano, Hardison is sorting Steel's data for him. You don't have much time, and you're aware that retreat is now the best option. You should-"

"Worcester. Good. I was pretty sure you'd do it, but I had to check." The first long sentence finally gave him the opportunity to listen to the way he spoke, finding his voice surprisingly steady. Yet, the sentence felt carefully formulated, as if Eliot had arranged what to say, taking into the account of amount of air that was needed for that. If Nate didn't know the state he was in, he would surely be deceived. If he didn't know the usual strength of his voice, he would surely think these spiritless, shallow words were normal for him. The only thing that reminded him of Eliot was the complete dismissal of his last sentence.

"You didn't call to check that, Eliot," he said, hesitating. Why the hell couldn't he express the relief he felt? Or even the fear? Maybe Sophie was right in her bitching about words and feelings, and all that shit.

"No. I have one more thing to do to finish this. If I call you after one hour, I'll explain everything. If I don't… I've sent all the important things to one phone at my place – you'll know all details of tonight. You'll be able to use it later. Though, if I don't call you, I suggest you take them, run away, and wait to see the results of taking Steel down. And when I say run, this time, for god's sake, I don't mean sneak into town and buy a fucking apartment."

"You have to admit it was a smooth move," he said lightly, with a smile, listening. After every sentence there was almost two seconds of silence.

"You sound too cheerful for this situation." There was clear suspicion in Eliot's voice now, and he could almost see him narrowing his eyes. "Where are you, indeed?"

Damn, he wanted to end this charade, finally, to speak with him freely, not having to think about every damn word, but he couldn't. For his sake. If ever, _now_ he had to maintain this, to keep him concentrated. Because he knew where he was, and what he was preparing himself to do, and every distraction, every twist in his thinking, could be deadly. So he smiled. And lied. "Relax. It's not where I am, it's what I hear. You don't sound like someone who should have been dead for the last three hours."

He didn't like the hesitation before Eliot's words. "I've solved a few problems with that-" he broke off. "How… Damn, I knew I should have erased those papers from the computer." He liked his suddenly lighter tone much less. It sounded almost like a whisper.

"If I start on things which I should have done, your head will explode. But we can exchange our notes later."

"Nope," his reply was soft. "Not gonna happen."

Nate stayed silent, pulling Lucille out of the traffic and stopping her, not sure if it was the best time to ask for clarification; he turned around to glance at the three of them, sitting in the back, in semi darkness. They were listening breathlessly.

His mouth went dry. "I guess the solving of those problems was just temporary?"

"It gave me a few more hours… I had to stretch them very sparingly. I met certain obstacles that needed removing, and it didn't go as well as it should."

"How long?"

"One hour… maybe. Still enough time to finish this."

"Or still enough time to go and have some help?"

"It's FUBAR, Nate, you can trust me on this. Too late for help," he hesitated a moment. "Don't tell them the truth, Nate. Let them think I've just left, and got killed somewhere, not connected to the team. You know why, I don't have to explain."

"In fact-"

"Nate! You know it's the best for them. I want you to promise me that you won't tell them."

"Okay. I'll let them think whatever they're thinking about it."

"Thank you. Remember, the phone at my place."

"Eliot, don't hang-"

It was too late, the line was dead.

He slowly lowered the phone, looking at the three pale faces. He cleared his throat, returning his voice into controlled shape.

"Cheer up."

They just continued to watch him, not bothering to reply to that.

"What? Yes, it sounded bad. It _is_ bad. But we've been through worse in these three days, almost four now, and it'll be over and finished in the next hour. You should be relieved."

Their stares became perplexed.

"I didn't mean to say it'll be finished because he'll be dead in an hour," he tiredly rubbed his forehead. "I was trying to say… well, my bad." He got up and opened the side doors of Lucille, letting the sun hit them all. "I forgot to tell you."

The first thing they noticed was the sound of the chirping blackbirds that entered along with the sunshine.

The second, only fifty meters away, parked in the same line as Lucille, was Eliot's Challenger, glowing red orange in the light. It was empty, but it was finally there.

Nate smiled. "I think this is the time when I say: Let's go steal ourselves an Eliot."


	31. Chapter 31

**I'm sorry - this cliffhanger was inevitable. This chapter is already almost 20 000 words long, and the second part of it will be the same lenght, and I had to cut it somewhere.**

**Trapercreekd did betaing, thank her :D**

Chapter 31

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"Fuck."

That was the only word Hardison was able to say for an entire minute when he jumped out of Lucille, and realized where they were. Nate watched him, waiting for him to connect two and two, but Parker interrupted that process.

"Where are we?" she asked looking at the building in the park. They were more than two hundred meters away.

"It's _Estrella_, Villacorta's famous restaurant," Hardison murmured. "It's the place where he comes every day, at the same time, to take a working breakfast with his lieutenants. Fuck," he turned to Nate. "How could Eliot be sure he would come today, after all the chaos during the night?"

"Because not coming here, now, would be a sign of weakness, which he can't allow now. You told us about the power and respect he has to keep."

"How long did you know Eliot would come here?" Hardison looked at him and sighed. "At the moment I mentioned it the first time, two days ago?"

"How much time do we have?" asked Sophie.

"Fifteen minutes, tops. Hardison, blueprints, surveillance, cameras, everything you can think of."

"What shall we do?" Parker was sitting on the floor of Lucille, carefully swinging her legs. "And where's Eliot?"

"We'll park a little closer, but remain hidden. He is somewhere near, maybe already there. I don't know, the cameras will show us. Get in, we have to move."

He found a small parking lot behind a row of magnolias; Lucille was a target, but they needed to be as close as possible. The good thing was that there were three other vans, probably delivery, one almost similar to Lucille. If their luck held, no one would think they had come so close, and they would just presume they were one more delivery van. It was thin, but there was nothing they could do about it.

"He said he has _one_ more thing to do, Nate," Sophie said quietly when Parker went to help Hardison, leaving two of them in the front seats. "And you said to Hardison one option is killing Villacorta, and the second is something you don't know if he is thinking about or not."

Nate smiled; she forgot the earbuds again. "I also said that killing wouldn't be his first choice, didn't I? I don't know, Sophie. We'll know more when Hardison-"

"I've got something, come here," the hacker called them, showing them a detailed 3D ground plan of the building. "It's a huge recreation complex, with pools, a bowling alley, fitness and similar healthy shit in the basement and on the first floor. _Estrella_ is on the second floor – peek through the window – we are looking at an open terrace. It's famous because of its live gardens, there's actual soil on that platform. Luckily for us, the static of the building had to be specially designed because of the weight, so the blueprints weren't hard to find. It also has fountains and-"

"Focus, Hardison."

"Yeah. Escape routes." Hardison enlarged the basement part, and it was visibly much bigger than the rest. "The front section, facing us, is where the pools are. Behind it is a bowling alley, and a few larger rooms that I have yet to see what they are. The corridors that are spreading out everywhere are for different deliveries. The first one, the left, goes behind the building, underground, to the other building in the park, where there's probably a heating plant… the second one, the right, comes from an auxiliary engine room, and we have two that are mainly surface entrances for delivery vans. Everything is in the back part of the building."

"Connections to the first and second floor?"

Hardison painted red routes from _Estrella_ to all the exits. "And we can't forget the exits on the ground floor, simple back doors." Those he painted blue.

"Now go away – I have to hack their surveillance. Remember those two hackers from the attack on Mass Gen? If the second one did their surveillance, I'll have to be extra careful not to let him to see me. Though I hope he'll be busy somewhere else. Or dead." He was typing as he spoke, and Nate waited, knowing he would call him to come back before he reached the front seat.

He was wrong. It took seven seconds longer than that.

"Wow."

"Wow?"

"Peter Jackson would ask this guy to work on The Hobbit if he knew what he was able to do with a simple cam-"

"Hardison. Time."

"The entire park is one giant laser grid, Nate. The park itself is huge; _Estrella_ is in the middle and there's more than fifteen minutes from the entrances of the park to here, everything is full of playgrounds, fountains, pavilions, and full of small paths. And trust me, the cameras on the trees, that's trouble, especially if they have motion sensors. He made a net anticipating the movement of the wind – the cameras change focus and angle according to the direction and the strength of the wind. This guy is an artist. Too bad he ran into me." Hardison finished the sentence with one press of his finger, and dozens of small images tilted for a second. "They are mine now. Okay, moving on to the complex now… here, he didn't need to think about movement, so he could play with the performance – the effective dot area is almost 100%, the coverage is near perfect on the ground floor and the first floor… the second floor and _Estrella_, there we have even better quality and… what the hell is he drinking?"

Even Nate had a problem connecting the image to reality, as he stared at Eliot who was sitting at Villacorta's table; yes, it had to be his table, on a slightly raised plateau surrounded with plants that went up the columns; his legs were stretched out and crossed at the ankles, he sat completely relaxed, and he was stirring a large red-purple slushie with a straw, seemingly concentrated only on the girlie decorations on his drink. Black suit, purple shirt, fancy sunglasses, and a lazy smile.

"Bloody hell," Sophie whispered. "I can't say what I expected, but I can tell this isn't it. He is just… waiting for Villacorta to come? As if he isn't on the list of people to be killed on sight? Nate?!"

"No, Villacorta will listen to what he has to say first."

"Video is perfect. The cameras that surround Villacorta's table are the best quality, and every one is focused on one chair. Also, there is one camera for each table on the terrace as well. Look how sharp the close up is; Villacorta records all his meetings here, for further analysis. He can see every blink, every reaction of his opponents, every look and smile, to study later in peace. I'm working on the audio now, it'll take a few sec-"

"Erm, hurry up." Sophie whispered when a large group entered the terrace. They had been warned he was there, because they spread out in a second, surrounding the table with weapons in their hands. A few of the guests that were sitting on the terrace were chased away in three seconds; _Estrella_ was closed for business.

"I presume we can't just go in there, say: 'Excuse us, this is ours', and take him away?" Hardison asked desperately, watching the scene, typing at the same time.

"That's much better than 60% of the plans that I'm working on now," Nate said watching Villacorta's approach.

"As long as you're working on it, I'm not worried."

"You should be. We can't do anything until we find out _what_ Eliot is doing."

"That means Villacorta can order his men to put a bullet in his head at any second, and we can't do anything?" Hardison squinted when Villacorta raised his hand at the moment he finished his sentence, but sighed in relief when he sat at the table, and his men put their guns away.

"I wouldn't say we can't do anything…" Nate said thoughtfully. "There is one thing we can do. In fact, we are _very_ good at it."

"What?"

"We can record it," Nate grinned and pointed at his screen. "Again."

Sophie gasped, in a helpless attempt to stop a laugh becoming a cry, and Parker openly snorted. Hardison slowly facepalmed.

"You finally snapped, huh?" he asked Nate, almost worried. "I was wondering when it'd happen."

"Maybe. A little," Nate said absentmindedly, watching the table, with his head slightly tilted. "And now, do what you always do… get control of everything that you can hack, and give me that damn audio. Now."

"Creepy," Parker smiled almost gently, crawled to the bag, and took out both kitchen knives. "Okay, _now_ we are ready."

.

o.0.o

. 

.

Eliot brought only three phones, he destroyed all the rest of them. No guns or needles, either. Even the pen was floating in one of the fountains in the park.

Destroying the cheap phone was particularly hard, he thought while watching the terrace filling with armed men. _Twenty-two, armed and trained_. Onto that phone he transferred all of his contacts and history, and the SIM card had to be scratched with the scalpel, torn into halves, and put into the fountain… and yet he wasn't sure if it was safe enough, if could it lead to _them_ somehow. He really should have paid attention to Hardison's geek babbling when he had a chance.

Sitting was good. He was low in the chair, with his elbows on the armrests, holding a drink with both hands, and the immobility kept the pain on a level he could control. He really had come a long way from yesterday morning with Bonnano, when he was also without morphine… he had learned a lot about hiding it. Or maybe he had just came to the level where even the agony became a boring nuisance. Even pain couldn't torture someone who didn't give a shit anymore.

His mind was bright and relaxed, and he knew he had to be very careful with this strange cheerful mood, but damn, everything was so fucking funny, from whatever angle he looked at it. Hilarious, in fact. He grinned, looking up at Villacorta, and said: "Good morning."

"Good morning," Villacorta nodded, still standing, and two of his men came closer. Eliot saw scanners in their hands and made no move, except taking the drink in his right hand, letting them sweep him from the head to the toe in search for weapons. Good thing, those modern cartels; he wasn't sure how it would go if they searched him in the old fashioned way. He showed them the phones, all three stuck in one pocket.

"No weapons, no wires," one man reported, switching the scanner with the gun, and Villacorta went to the other side of the big table, followed by Yonni Bugueno. Eliot followed Bugueno with his eyes; if this was winter, if the nights were longer, maybe this wouldn't have been their first meeting. He almost regretted that he didn't have the chance to deal with him, when the man turned and smiled. His eyes, in a broad, soft face under short dark hair, were cruel. Prostitution was, in many ways, more cruel than drug trafficking, and this one was an expert in his field.

Villacorta didn't smile. And his eyes weren't a bit cruel.

Bugueno sat three chairs away from Villacorta. _Smart move_. They were forcing him to divide his attention, and at the same time, there was no danger of a crossfire when their goons started to shoot.

Two waitresses brought plates arranged with food, a pitcher with coffee, cups and smaller plates, but Villacorta stopped them when they gave him his coffee. "That will be enough, thank you. Take the rest of the day off, and tell everybody to go home." He didn't smile, but his voice was pleasant. He looked at him and rose his eyebrows. "Unless you want something else?"

"One more slushie, darlin'," Eliot smiled at the girl, and added, "Nice touch with the mint leaves, and these orange and banana flowers look fabulous."

The slushie took his very first victim when Bugueno snorted, revealing the exact level of his comprehension and understanding of the situation and people. He might have been very good at scaring the young girls, but he wasn't a player for the big deals. "She made it look like a rose." Eliot opened his eyes wider, turning to Bugueno. "Have you seen it? Look, there's even a small petal." Bugueno's plump face grimaced with disdain, and he glanced at Villacorta in silent question.

Villacorta wasn't looking at him, so no answer came to that.

The picture of Villacorta that Hardison had sent him was just a pale sketch, though it was high quality; the picture couldn't show the power that was radiating from him. Eliot smiled; Hardison would probably go into an explanation about force fields or something like that. Good looking, middle-aged man, with black hair that was going just slightly gray, naturally darker skin and black eyes. His finely sculpted features revealed that even if he thought about finding the Lady Killer later, in some alternate ending to all this, it would be of no use; she wasn't a Chilean assassin because of the money. She was there because of this man.

Damn, Villacorta wasn't the best because his men followed him in fear; they followed him in respect, maybe even love. And it wouldn't have lasted, if it wasn't returned. He remembered that Villacorta sent Tapia to toughen up, gave him the rest of the lieutenants and tried to help him to survive in a world he didn't belong in. Now he could understand why he'd launched the crusade when they'd dealt with San Guillermo, the overkill that was confusing him from the beginning. He took care of his men, his property, his business; what was his, what he controlled, couldn't be touched under the penalty of death. _Damn, he understood that too well._

_Maybe it would be wise to avoid mentioning Rojas and Barclay in this conversation, Spencer_.

Yep. He was right. This _was_ fucking hilarious. He managed to erase the glint from his eyes, and arrange his smile in a more prudent, formal form, forbidding himself to take this too lightly. Being dead or not, he had a job to do, and taking this man by the hand and leading him where he wanted him to go, might prove a lot harder than he ever expected. Maybe even impossible.

Villacorta's gaze was bleak and steady, showing no traces of any trouble, or a sleepless night.

"You have to know a few things before I let you speak," Villacorta said when the girl brought another slushie and put it on the table. He waited until she went away, then continued. "You won't leave this place alive." It was a calm statement, disinterested and very nasty in those circumstances. "If your boss thought he could deal with the situation by sending me someone to negotiate, he made a dreadful mistake. I don't negotiate. You'll be killed."

Eliot stirred his drink, and then peeked the other one on the table. The other one had a pineapple tulip.

"So, you think Nate Ford sent me here to _negotiate_?" he asked him with the same calmness in his voice that Villacorta so naturally obtained. He felt stirring in Villacorta's men, they stayed alerted. "Or, do you think he made a mistake by sending me here, not realizing the danger I'm going into? Or, perhaps, he purposely sent you a pawn, to play his move on the board?"

"Why would Ford send me the weakest piece?"

"At the moment you find an answer to that question, Villacorta, we'll be able to really talk," he smiled. "I'll wait. In meantime, I'll speak."

"Eliot Spencer." Villacorta entwined his fingers, watching him attentively. "Not only will I have immense satisfaction in killing you first, but also I'll profit from it. You're aware of the rewards on your head? Some of them are astronomical."

"You did your research, but not thoroughly enough. You know nothing about me."

Villacorta nodded. "But I do know something about pawns," he said. "I use them a lot myself. The pawn is perfect for a man like me, because it's not in his nature to retreat. He _can't_ retreat. He can only go forth, without turning around, blind to all the moves that are playing out behind him. He steps aside only to take a life. Or to be sacrificed. He is rarely included in the real moves that decide the game, there are other, more versatile pieces on the board for that. They do the real winning." Villacorta stopped for a second to put sugar in his coffee before he continued with the same easy rhythm. "You see… the pawns are the grunt force, but they are very hard to find. The real ones. I'm not talking about the mindless minions who are expendable and whom you can find on every corner. When a man finds a real pawn, he better not let him skip away; in right hands, a pawn is priceless. He can be used for anything, he'll do his job with sheer force, because it's the only way he knows. He'll do anything needed to get the job done. The pawns represent an honor and loyalty, courage and force, in their purest shape." Villacorta looked him directly into the eyes, sinking his gaze. "I have my pawn, and I'm using him scarcely, knowing his worth. Why did Nate Ford send his to his death? Why are you being sacrificed, Eliot Spencer?"

If he ever, even for one second, thought he should underestimate this man, _now_ was the time to come to his senses.

"I was bored to death," he said simply. What was that Sophie had said during that job with the violin? Scheherazade bought her life, night after night, by prolonging her story, keeping her husband interested; she was alive as long as he wanted to hear the rest, as long as she had something worth listening to. God, he hated talking, _so much_. He smiled again, knowing he had to buy minutes, one after another, with the talk that Villacorta _must not_ understand, which made things way more interesting… and started to talk. "He said, it would be fun, you'll be surrounded by pretty nurses. He said, you'll rest, and watch TV, while we work our asses off. It sounded cool, 'til I figured out all the nurses were psychopath sadistic bitches, and that I'd be practically tied to the bed 'til nights, when I was only able to walk around. All that, while they were havin' fun with your people."

"Having fun?" Villacorta asked quietly. Bugueno wasn't so unreadable; without turning his eyes to him, Eliot could see the involuntary twitch of his shoulders, as if he stopped himself from leaning forward before it became a real move.

"Well, we do enjoy our work," Eliot smiled, watching Villacorta's eyes, trying to find irritation in them. There was none. _There was fucking nothing_. "You gave us an opportunity we couldn't miss, practically a gift. That ambush in the warehouse was perfect, once we found out where your men were taken. It took us a little time to arrange and set up everything necessary for the acceptance of a victim with an almost fatal chest wound, and his immediate reception in the _post_ surgery care. You know you can make the certain steps disappear, right? Or, I should say, to erase all the traces that they didn't happen at all? When the board was set, they started to play, leaving me to the boredom and lousy TV programs. I know you thought you were the one that drew my team to the sitting duck, yours truly, but I have to tell you that your sitting duck was plastic bait, already set up when you came up with your brilliant idea."

Villacorta raised his hand, and the blond guy behind him came a step closer. The short order that Villacorta gave him was too quiet to be heard, and his head was turned so Eliot couldn't read his lips, and he could only hope that Villacorta asked for more coffee. _Right_.

"What was the _result_ of their play with the hospital?" Villacorta returned all of his attention to him; it seemed that man had loads of attention ready to be poured out, causing his already overheated brain to speed up even more. It wasn't good; he had to spare almost half of his concentration on his breathing, the control of the pain, the control of the every single move he made, and he wasn't sure if the rest would be able to stay focused enough to match this gaze that was never leaving his eyes. _And he thought Barclay's calmness was terrifying. Damn fool_.

"Information. Knowledge. Power. That's the only currency we operate with, that's our main product." He took his glass and leaned back again; holding the glass would cover up the slight trembling of his fingers. He felt it in time, before it became real, visible shaking, and hoped this would stop it. Letting Villacorta notice that would be a giant mistake. "You might have done your research, Villacorta, but the pieces you managed to collect are far away from the whole picture, and you're aware that you know very little about your victims. Let me tell you something, something that I will probably repeat to you more than once: _If you want to control everything, you need to know everything_."

"How can you be so sure of what I know?"

"We are alive."

Silence. Damn, that man didn't smile, he didn't change his facial expression into anything worth seeing, he just sat there and watched him, patiently. And he had no idea how to read him, how to see what was going on behind those dark, keen eyes. For the first time in his life, he couldn't read someone's silence, and it _had_ to happen right in the middle of the most important thing he ever did.

If he allowed five more seconds of silence, if he doesn't give him something worth leaving him alive for a little longer…

"In short, you made a mistake," he continued lightly, but this time he returned Villacorta's even stare with the same one. "You drew our attention on yourself with this hunt; it interfered with our jobs, our plans, and disturbed pretty much everything that we were doing – and we were in the middle of a few huge things. We were forced to reset, and to concentrate on the clear and present danger. And we are not happy about it."

The blackbirds' chirping was the only sound that was heard for five seconds. Villacorta took a sip of the coffee, and carefully returned the cup to the table. He should be discouraged with this silence, Eliot thought, watching Villacorta watching him; discouraged and shaken. Probably terrified, too. He struggled for better control of his face, but it was in vain, he just couldn't stop the derisive smile from showing. This man had played this game with many, many victims before. Yet, this time, it wasn't a victim before him.

He subdued his smile. "If I'm annoying you, I can return later." For a moment, Eliot thought he caught a faintly ironic light in Villacorta's left eye, but he couldn't be sure. "I'm sure you have to discuss many important things with your lieutenant…_s_." He averted his eyes from him only to look at the table, at Bugueno, and the empty chairs where the other lieutenants should have been sitting, then looked at Villacorta again. "Or not," he smiled sweetly.

Villacorta went very, very still.

"Now that I have your undivided attention, I'm glad to inform you we have a present for you." Eliot fixed his features into a polite smile. "I had to fool your Lady Killer, and make her believe I was in the hospital to keep my eyes on your three morons. No, I was there to be the bait and draw your forces within our reach, to keep them there long enough to be observed. We used an opportunity you gave us, and analyzed your actions, the preparing of the attack, and delivery. All the steps were evaluated, all the flaws recorded. I insisted on giving you an A plus on the coordination of the small units in the main attack, but I was outnumbered… sometimes it's hard to explain an professional opinion to the professionals from another field. You'll get a copy during the day. I hope you're color blind, there's a lot of red in the comments. But with compliments. We are polite people."

"Yonni, remind me to send a thank note," Villacorta glanced at Bugueno, but not for longer than one blink. "I'm sure the trained professional certainly found many flaws and mistakes," he continued casually. "Yet, that same professional voluntarily came directly into the hands of the people who are going to kill him. That usually means he has an exit strategy – and I'm sure we shall come to that at some point; but what will happen if the other side don't follow your script? How well are you prepared for unexpected twists and turns?"

Damn, he almost shrugged, he was too concentrated on Villacorta, and forgot to control his body; he managed to stop the move at the very beginning, but not before an outburst of pain ripped through him, causing his teeth to clench, and his smile to become frozen on his face. It lasted three seconds, an eternity under Villacorta's stare, and he could only hope that the Chilean would think his words caused his breathing to stop.

Villacorta's voice went soft; he noticed. "The professional would know there's a possibility of using him, while he's still alive, against the others – as a weapon, as a tool, or as bait. Yet, I don't see even the slightest hint of worry, much less the fear that that could happen. What conclusions should we draw from this? Either you have a strong assurance that you yet have to reveal, or there's no one who can be blackmailed with your life. Maybe both combined."

Now was Eliot's turn to go very, very still.

Eliot returned his gaze evenly. "I might be a distraction," he offered. "Even better… I might be the distraction who will tell you he is the distraction, while he is here just to kill you." And again, the only one who tensed was Bugueno.

"No. You will try to kill me only if anything else fails. That's expected," Villacorta said thoughtfully. "Your coming here is a desperate move, Eliot Spencer, and I'm even beginning to doubt that the rest of your group knows you're here. Do you think it was clever to show me what state my opponents are in? You don't know what to do, how to get out of this, and desperate moves are only things that are left for you to try." Villacorta put his elbows on the table, seemingly more concentrated than before, which was a disturbing sight. "Your words are empty," his face hardened a little. "If you have an exit strategy, _now_ would be a good time to start working on it."

Villacorta didn't have to give a clear order; the five men that were standing behind him relaxed their arms. The others, behind Eliot and at the two tables at the back of the terrace, he couldn't see now, but he knew they were ready too. Damn, he was right; this man didn't have to maintain the power and the respect. Particularly not the damn control. And he still hadn't found out anything about him… he couldn't catch any reaction that would show him even the slightest way to carefully attack. This puzzle was better than he'd expected; there must have been much more boring ways to spend the last hour of his life.

"You haven't smiled even once since you came here," he said carefully. Then he smiled, taking care to control it, not letting it be too broad, too genuine. "And you are winning. That's strange."

Villacorta waited for the rest.

"I don't need the exit strategy," Eliot said gently, and slurped his juice only to make Bugueno twitch. Yep, he grimaced again, like a trained dog. "What?" he asked him over the straw, peeking through the banana rose. "Not manly enough? You've got serious issues, Bugueno."

"Kill him already, Renan," Bugueno hissed. "We have more important things to do than listen to this rambling."

Well, if Bugueno thought this was rambling, maybe he was succeeding, though he doubted Villacorta shared his opinion.

Villacorta was too smart to ask him what the hell he was talking about all this time, and when he would get to the point; nope, he used the situation and just collected piece after piece of information that was given freely, patiently waiting to see where it would lead at the end. The dangerous thing was, he couldn't be sure when, exactly, Villacorta would decide it was enough, that there was nothing more he could get from him, on what subject it would happen.

He had many subject matters to go through, and he had to distribute his strength… okay, not quite the strength, there was none… better to say, he had to stretch his weakness, and slow it down. When Villacorta turned to Bugueno to dart him a look, Eliot took two seconds to assess his condition; Bugueno, whom he was not looking at directly, was slightly blurred, the edges of his vision were dotted with the tiny black spots. For now, they were not spreading. The second use of the slushie, the crushed ice that should cool his throat and constrict the small veins, slowing the bleeding, was turning against him. He was chilled, and the pale sun wasn't warm enough. The cool breeze wasn't helping, either. But his mind still worked. And the pain… nope, no use to think about it.

He was fucked, but crazy enough not to care.

Villacorta relaxed his fingers on the table, and looked at him again. "So, the hospital was your playground. I get it." For a second he seemed to be on the edge of a smile, and suddenly, the chill from the slushie spread where no slushie had gone before. Eliot slowly blinked, waiting. "I have someone who would like to discuss that matter with you; he claims, categorically, that he never misses his target." Villacorta's eyes turned to the doors that led to the inner part of the restaurant, a stairway and back offices; the blond guy had returned, and he wasn't alone.

The funny thing was, it took a moment for him to recognize the rough face under the braided hair with a bandana, though he'd been very close when they'd fought in that warehouse. His memory sorted it out only when he put him a little further away, and when he added the flash of the fired gun that lit the face behind it. _That_ image was clear, brilliant in every fucking detail. He managed to only flinch inwardly when he almost felt that bullet slamming into him again, the memory was so vivid.

"If you lied, there's no point in listening further, right?" Villacorta said softly.

Eliot tried to rub his smile back off his face. "Good morning, Cuchillo." He knew his bared teeth had little in common with a smile. "Nice to see you. Again."

The Spider just started to pull his strings around the Fly. 

.

o.0.o

.

. 

Nate was extremely happy that Sunday mornings in the half private park didn't draw too many walkers, just a few joggers were caught on the cameras, because the motion sensors on the park cameras gave a quiet 'ping' every time they caught a person in their radius. More than that, he was happy because if any of them saw Lucille, they would certainly call the police to arrest them for having public sex.

Lucille was rocking.

Hardison was at his place, he was sitting right beside the hacker, and Parker was sitting on something so her chin could be rested on the table near Hardison's elbow, just twenty centimeters from the monitors. Sophie… Sophie was pacing the van, the entire - how much? - four meters, up and down, behind them. She was _marchin_g, for god's sake, and they all felt as if they weren't in the van, but in a small boat on not so calm a sea.

"You have to find some way to call him, this is unacceptable… he has no idea what he's doing! Do any of you know what he is doing? I thought not. Look – his posture is all wrong, he is sending all the wrong signals, this is _dangerous_!"

"Calm down, Sophie," he automatically repeated, for the tenth time, but in vain. She hastened her pace. He tried to concentrate again on the dialogue that was going before them.

"What's the point of screwing up the facts?" she went on, her softly modulated voice very high on the edges. "No, let me rephrase that: What's the bloody point in sitting in front guns, waiting to be shot, _and_ screwing up the facts? What the hell does he think he is doing?! This is not grifting, you hear me, it ain't griftin', he needs backup, and he needs it now! Nate!"

"Calm down, Sophie," he repeated tiredly. "You're mixing dialects. You sound like a UN conference gone bad."

"Bleh." The monitors swayed when she took a turn and stormed in a different direction. "This is a madness. Hardison, try again if he turned on his phones. NOW!"

"Calm down, Sophie," Hardison murmured. "No phones yet."

"Calm down!?" she stopped and Hardison flinched, rising his shoulders. "I won't _calm down_! Villacorta is reading him, and Eliot hasn't decided yet what stance he is going to take; he is too exposed to him, he wavers between openness and closeness, and he is in the wrong position! You can't lead the conversation where you want it if you're sitting too relaxed! Every little detail is important, and he-" she stopped and Nate turned for a second to see what happened.

Sophie was looking at Parker. The thief was slowly going with the kitchen knife, a centimeter a second, along the lines of the escape routes that were on the monitor near her. The tip of the blade was almost touching the monitor, causing Hardison to flinch again.

"-he needs the backup, Nate," Sophie finished, venting a long sigh. "I don't know what he's doing, but he can't do it alone. You mustn't, in only two sentences, talk with a man trying to leave one impression, and in another, provoke another one with banana roses. Villacorta is catching the mixed signals, and he will-"

"Trouble," Hardison caught his breath with a hiss, and Sophie came nearer to look at the new man on the scene.

"Hardison." Nate pulled her to sit beside him. "When I tell you, hit all the alarms in the building. The fire alarms, and especially the alarms in the offices. Those are connected to the police and security."

"Police?" Sophie whispered. "With all this going on the whole night, the response time shall be ten times longer. He has one more minute before they see he really was shot, and they'll kill him, there's no-"

"No, they won't. Villacorta won't kill him while all the alarms are ringing, drawing police, he won't explain a dead body on his terrace when the police arrive. They'll take him somewhere else to kill him, which means there won't be more than twenty Chileans around him, like it is now, just an escort party. We'll be able to follow-" Nate stopped his explanation.

"What?!" Hardison hissed, his trembling fingers ready to press all the buttons at the same time.

"Stand down, Hardison," he put a hand on his shoulder, hoping he was right. He stared for a few seconds at Eliot's smile, a vicious grimace, expected from a man like Eliot Spencer at the moment he met the man who'd shot him… but Eliot's eyes were calm. Maybe, just maybe, a little relieved. _Relieved_?!

"We'll wait," he simply said. And smiled.

Parker was quietly humming.

. 

o.0.o

. 

.

Damn. This shit would need _moving_. He regretted that he had remained in his relaxed pose for so long, because straightening himself up _now_, under Villacorta's gaze, and with the gunshot wound topic brought up, would have been one hell of a show.

He wrapped his mind about every move that needed to be done, and stopped breathing. Steeling himself for a new flash of agony was of little use, but it helped in hiding it.

He fixed the smile on his face. And started.

He knew enough about his body to know that his moves looked as one, a natural change of position, he even moved his chair a little aside to better see the incoming men, and he hoped no one noticed that the chair was now closer to the table. More than anything, he hoped Villacorta didn't notice his face going completely white. If it could go whiter than it already was. _Okay, now breathe again_. He needed that damn air for his voice; there was no point in smiling if he couldn't produce any sound. Except screaming, of course.

_Yep. Hilarious_.

He put the slushie on the table, leaving his right elbow resting on it when he looked at Villacorta. "I have to ask you one question, if I may?" Damn, his voice did sound more strained and raspier than just moments ago, but he narrowed his eyes and forced Villacorta to look at him first, and listen to him second. He waited for his nod, then continued. "Would you come to me and claim you're not shot, knowing that only thing necessary to see if you're telling the truth, is the simple opening of your shirt?"

Villacorta tilted his head slightly, watching him. He smiled sweetly. "I'll do it right away, I'm sure Bugueno will be delighted. But before that, I would ask myself another question. If it is so obvious I can prove I'm not shot, without any doubt, why does your man still insist he did it?"

Villacorta waited. Eliot smiled again and took one of the plates that were on the table before him, not breaking the eye contact. _This crap is gonna hurt more than that damn bullet_. "What was that sentence that I told you I'll repeat more than once today? If you want to control everything, you need to _know_ everything."

"Well, if my word doesn't mean anything here," Cuchillo barked, "then see for yourse-"

Throwing the plate was a lot harder than throwing the scalpel, because he had to swing his shoulder, throwing it like a frisbee. It hit Cuchillo right in the middle of the nose, horizontally beneath both eyes, with a sickening sound. He flew two meters backwards and crushed into a table and chairs, disappearing from his sight. More or less like everything else, swallowed in dancing darkness. He felt as if someone had tore his right shoulder and the chest apart with a chainsaw.

He dared not look at Villacorta, he would see in his eyes that he was just sightlessly staring, so he bowed his head and frowned, relaxing his hand. "Always trouble with this wrist," he murmured to test his voice. Barely a whisper, covered by the buzzing that couldn't quite conceal the rattling sound of his breathing. He could only hope that he was the only one that could hear it for now. He cleared his throat, _very carefully_, knowing what he was risking with that, and his voice grew a little stronger. "So, do you want to know a few interesting facts about the man who claims he shot me?" he asked casually, still not looking at him, as if he didn't want to put pressure on that decision. _Forget about the damn shirt, Villacorta, and you'll maybe live a little longer_. _Maybe_.

"Shoot."

He didn't look up at the goons, to see if that order had been given to them, only because rising his head was a move he had to arrange first, which gave him the time to realize Villacorta had spoken to him. Great. He could allow himself to be weak and unable to move and talk, in fact, there was no way he could stop that, but the one thing he _couldn't_ allow was the slowing of his brain. _That_ would kill them all, instead of just one.

"The state police are deep into your cartel."

Bugueno snorted again. "Cuchillo, State Police? I'm pretty sure he can't even write."

"I wouldn't know, our deals were not written," he said evenly. "He couldn't stop the ambush in the warehouse in time so we had to improvise, and make it look convincing that he escaped. The only one. Villacorta, do you really think that four of your _armed_ men couldn't kill me, if they really wanted to? If the loyal part of them wasn't obstructed from within?"

"Since you so appropriately silenced the only one who could say something," Villacorta said carefully, "I have to ask you, if it is true, why are you telling this to me?"

"To show you who you are really dealing with, and how wrong everything that you think you know about us is. We are criminals. And I have to repeat myself, again… we are not happy with this situation." He darted a glance at the fallen man. He could only see his legs, and there was no chance he could remember what jacket he had been wearing when he came in. That meant he had to take a risk with his next move, having less than 30 % chance of succeeding. "Sweep him," he motioned to Cuchillo. If nothing happened, he could say he wanted to disarm him before he woke up.

Villacorta nodded, and the man with the scanner bent over the other Chilean.

"Fuck!" They waited only ten seconds, enough for the black dots to clear enough for him to see everything clearly again. The man came bringing a small black bug to Villacorta. "He was wired."

Well, not technically wired, he was bugged. Eliot had planted his tracking device under the seam of his jacket; he had no idea if it would hold on for this long, or if he would even be in the same jacket. It was good to see a little luck finally on their side. _If only Villacorta forgot about the shirt…_

Villacorta observed the tiny bug, and his lips tightened, for the first time.

"Not knowing something is a bitch, isn't it?" Eliot said quietly, without a smile this time. He pulled out his silver phone and turned it on. "Want to see more? I have another one for you, Cuchillo is not working alone."

Coddington's picture was perfectly clear, with the tattoo, braids, and Chilean colors on his shirt. The image from ten years ago, along with the article on the Boston Gun Project wasn't that clear, but it didn't matter. "You can check the paper edition in any archive, if you doubt this."

"You think you are ruthless, Villacorta?" he leaned a little closer to him, for the first time, his voice even quieter. "You haven't seen yet what the ruthless is."

Villacorta said nothing.

As some long seconds crawled past, Eliot leaned back, slowly. Preparing to pull another string around his helpless Fly. 

.

o.0.o

.

.

"The silver phone is on," Hardison's voice was quiet, but Sophie didn't raise her head to hear him better. "I can call him. Tell him we are here. Tell him about the alarms, and that we'll be near when they move him, so he can be ready." He paused and she knew he was glancing at Nate. "Or not," he finished with a sigh.

Of course not, she thought, knowing how devastating a distraction could be when playing the game in front guns. Whatever he played, it was his game now, and she knew Nate wouldn't just simply stop it by pressing the alarms and forcing the Chileans to move him somewhere, no matter that it could lessen the danger for Eliot. He would do it only if he was sure Eliot would be killed in the next few seconds… and it was the right decision. But that only riled her more.

She wasn't used being cut off from one of them who was out hanging in the wind, without the goddamn backup, without the connection. Without an earbud, it was as if they weren't there at all.

And she _knew_ he couldn't read Villacorta, she saw that in his probing, and in the absence of his responses to the little things she noticed in the man that was facing him. If she was in his ear, she could tell him the meaning of Villacorta's relaxed right hand in combination with the thinned lips, what it meant when he- she stopped the nagging in her head and took a deep breath, rising her head from her hands.

The half darkness in the van was suffocating. She stretched and pressed the button for lowering the front windows to let some air in. It didn't help.

She looked at the monitors again; Hardison had divided the biggest one into two halves, one for Eliot, one for Villacorta, so Nate could have a close up of both of them, not missing anything important. On the second screen was their entire table, with Bugueno, and all the other Chileans in the background. The rest of the monitors were filled with many small security cameras from the park and the building, along with the blueprints, forgotten for now, as they all stared at the big one.

And all of that just reminded her of the despair and anger she felt when she watched the recording from the warehouse; she felt the same helplessness. It wasn't the same, she knew it; they were here, _now_, able to do something, able to make Villacorta move him, and to not kill him. She felt that way only because he was disconnected from them, she tried to assure herself, but the damage was done. The memory of the laughing faces that were circling around him, the hyenas with a hunger in their eyes, sent the waves of nausea, and sucked up all the air around her.

She stumbled and opened the side door. "I need a minute outside."

Nate turned to her. "What? Don't go-"

"I'm not going anywhere! Just two steps from the van, for Christ sake!" she slammed the door shut, and rested her back on the van, breathing deeply, raising her face to the sun.

Thirty seconds, she said to herself, closing her eyes. Nothing could happen in thirty seconds. _And everything_. A couple of deep breaths, and she would go back and continue to watch.

She counted the seconds, breathing slowly, feeling better.

Then she opened her eyes, and found herself staring directly into the face of the hyena.

Randall Coddington. Did Bonnano know he had been released, or escaped? His nose was covered with a bandage, a souvenir from encounter with Nate in Eliot's corridor, his hand was still in the plaster, but he was in his street clothes, obviously heading to the _Estrella_ when he saw her and changed his course. Cuchillo wasn't the only one that Villacorta had called to come; one more laughing face was going to that terrace, and Eliot had no chance to play the same bluff twice, this time with Coddington.

Just three days ago, Sophie Devereaux would have froze, maybe even screamed, or tried to play an innocent walker who just looked like the woman they were trying to kill… this Sophie Devereaux, to her own consternation, bared her teeth in triumph, forgetting she had two men only one step away.

"Payback time," she whispered when he opened his mouth to say something, and smashed the side of his knee with her foot, with all the rage that had been boiling inside her for the last four days. He screamed and toppled forward, and she hit him once more, this time with her knee, directly in the head.

Jesus, it _hurt_. She whined, limping two steps from the van, barely aware of the opening doors, of Nate's stunned face, Parker's giggle – she could only curse under her breath.

Nate motioned to Hardison to tie up the unconscious man and hide him in the bushes under the magnolias, and returned to the van immediately, darting a smile to her.

_Damn you, Eliot Spencer_, she murmured to herself, still consternated, not because she hit the man, but because she _wanted_ to hit him… and because it felt so good.

And the sickness and the helplessness were gone. A strange thing, that violence.

.

. 

o.0.o

. 

"Tell me about Patrick Bonnano."

_Fuck_. Villacorta's question was a good sign – he had finally accepted the fact that letting him talk would be more useful than killing him instantly, and that was exactly what he needed, but at the same time, even hearing Patrick's name from him was deeply disturbing. The neutral form of the question was another warning that set all of his alarms off, and stirred up all the buried fears. This was a counterattack, and it hit close to home.

"You are aware that I'm giving you just the bits of information, with a _purpose, _right?" he managed an unfelt smile. "I didn't prepare anything for him, and picking the bits that could be used may take too long. Ask something specific, and I'll see if it would be useful, _for me_, to tell you," he thought for a second, not sure if it sounded like he didn't want to tell him about Patrick, or even worse, as if he was protecting him, and continued, "unless you're planning to kill him – in that case, I'll sing everything I know."

"Why?"

"Because that pain in the ass was in my room in the hospital twice a day, pressing, asking questions, suspecting, _knowing_ something was wrong with my witness status and that shooting. He even put the guards in front my door to stop me from leaving."

"It's an interesting circle we have in here," Villacorta said slowly. "You took my lieutenant, I'm killing you, Bonnano and the State Police are inside my business, and Bonnano is in your room. Bonnano's alleged men were the ones who were sent to kill you, and in the same hospital where Bonnano was visiting you." He drummed his long fingers once on the table, thinking. "It will be interesting to see what he has to say about that."

"If you can get him in here in…" he glanced at his watch glaringly, "thirty minutes, I can prepare a list of questions, too." Villacorta's eyes noticed the Lady Killer's watch, but he didn't take the bait. He had to continue. "There's even more things you can add to that circle, but, guess what, you _don't know_ about them. I'm really beginning to wonder how you can lead an entire cartel without the basic knowledge of what's going on around you."

"And what would be his position on this board? Black or white? You're criminals, so you're not white by default; you're white only because your first move started this. We are now in the middlegame, Eliot Spencer, our initial moves are made. The pawn is now exactly three steps into the board. You cannot retreat."

"You're wrong," he said simply. "San Guillermo wasn't our first move in this game. We started with Old Callahan and Aaron Cortez three weeks ago."

Finally, _a reaction_. Villacorta's eyes lost that calm glaze for the first time; he frowned for a second while all the implications of his words were visibly running through his mind. Eliot stayed silent and let him think; he desperately needed a pause, and at the same time, he had to hurry this up… damn. His time was running out. The black dots were dancing, and he even had to control blinking, forcing his eyelids to open again with strict orders. All of his strength was concentrated only in his voice, keeping it normal as long as he could; there was none left to control the pain and shaking of his hands, now disturbingly strong, that was sending tremors through his entire body.

"To add more things in your circle, Bonnano led the action that put them in jail, he did the arresting part," he went on, not wanting to give Villacorta the time to think too much. "The problem with Bonnano is that he is not our man in the State Police, and he was too close. It was inevitable that he started to connect things, started suspecting. As you've already figured out, we don't let the loose ends hinder us, and we are working on Bonnano. He'll be taken care of, very soon," he paused again. "State Police did the arresting. We did all the rest."

"The Mexicans and Irish, at the same time?" Villacorta's eyebrows went up a millimeter.

"In one night, to be precise," he nodded. "San Guillermo took one day. We had to travel, not our town," he added. "We have many chess boards that we play on, as I mentioned before. Your little vendetta disturbed our work, we had to regroup and put them on hold – some of them in very delicate phases – and as you certainly witnessed before, plans that are left alone tend to go awry in every possible way. At the same time. Repeatedly," he paused, contemplating that sad destiny for a moment, not risking the sigh though he knew it would add a nice touch, then raised his eyes back to Villacorta and said flatly, "No wonder that all went to hell last night."

He almost shifted when Villacorta slowly blinked; he was a damn fool when he thought that the man was concentrated before. Nope, it was nothing compared to this penetrating stare that pinned his eyes and started to dig. _He wanted his full attention, right_? He clenched the glass harder to stop the shaking from spreading to his elbow and shoulder, and smiled.

"I _do_ admire your wits and lack of fear," Villacorta's voice suddenly became very low. "That, however, doesn't change the fact that you'll be killed when we finish our talk. And you're not a fool, you know that. In that light, it's understandable that you're prolonging your story, but I'm losing my patience. Would a bullet in your knee cap enhance your coherence?" Without order, two men behind him took a few steps closer.

A big lazy cat, with his paw on the mouse that was squirming on the floor; that was what Villacorta thought was going on right now, and he had to keep him in that conviction as long as he could. The balance of power had to be on Villacorta's side, _for now_, and he had to be careful not to disturb it. So he backed off, broke the eye contact with a blink, and nodded.

"We were cleaning up Boston," he said, using Villacorta's menacing tone to show a little unsteadiness in his voice. If his luck held, when his voice finally gave out, Villacorta would think he was just scared. "The Mexicans and Irish were the first, and we hit directly on the head, to weaken them while we planned further. Too many complicated things at the same time prolonged that into weeks, but we were finally one step away from closing it, when you struck. I have to admit, it took us unprepared – our informants and our people in your cartel didn't see it coming until it was too late. Luckily, we were working on you at the same time… so we had our initial info… and plans ready." He had to stop, the long speech started to consume all his air, forcing him to breathe faster, and the pounding in his head and chest was became too distracting. He couldn't allow losing focus, not _now_.

"_Two_ knee caps," Villacorta said softly.

Damn, breathing _and_ talking weren't going together. He raised one finger as a sign to wait, and took the silver phone. He went through the menus, without seeing them, counting seconds. One second, one breath, too fast, _too visible_, no matter how shallow it was. He knew that he could expect the bullet any second now, but this time he decided to push his luck, to stretch Villacorta's patience, and risk it. The alternative was worse than one more bullet. In fact, he doubted he would even notice another agony, it would simply melt into this one. After fifteen seconds, he slowed his breathing to one breath every three seconds.

"I had to check what info I have," he explained slowly. "My team is still working on it, and I don't have everything collected from last night yet."

"You have _notes_ in there?"

"I'm the pawn. The hitter. I'm saying what I was told to say, so _excuse_ me while I remember where I was when I stopped. If I lose my track one more time, I'll have to start all over again." He bought a few more seconds by putting the phone on the table, hoping that Villacorta would continue to ask questions. He could do normal conversation without a problem, at least for a few more minutes, but longer monologues were hard, and they were pushing him to the edge of passing out. _Which would be hilarious as well_. He hid his growing amusement under a wry smile, and continued. "The best time to attack somebody, in our case, the Mexicans and Irish, is when the enemy is occupied with someone else. We were delighted when we discovered that it was you they were occupied with… but it seems they are not strong enough to finish this, and spare us the trouble - even with all the help they had from your men."

"Ah," Villacorta now openly raised his eyebrows, obviously feeling the same amusement as he did. _What a merry bunch at this table_. "Now, you're saying that not only do I have the state police in my cartel, but also some of my men are working for the Mexicans and Irish as well? What's next, FBI, Interpol?" _Damn. He forgot Interpol. He missed a chance to involve Sterling in this fuckup_. An involuntary evil grin escaped him, but he quickly got it together, and controlled his face.

"While I was playing the duck, boring myself to death, my team had a very busy few days. Your hospital attacks weren't that complicated, they had enough time to return to other jobs, and when they saw the hell was going to break loose, Nate decided it was not necessary to wait for your second attack to collect more info about your MO. We had enough. And I was finally unleashed. Last night was my playground. Very exciting and fun night, but, man, I'm so damn tired," he took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes, giving Villacorta a chance to observe the dark shadows beneath his eyes; in this context, he would automatically connect that to a sleepless night.

Villacorta remained silent, thinking, not forcing him to speak again. He glanced at him… nope, the Chilean still had no idea where this was going, he couldn't nail it down. Good.

"Why you weren't attacking me, in the first place?" Villacorta said. "Oscar was a probe, just as Callahan and Cortez were. But you stopped, and continued only with those two."

"Who said we stopped? Most of our work is invisible until the final blow. But yes, you're right, we did more with those two. We have plenty of weak spots to press on."

"And what would be my weak spots?"

"You have none. At least, we couldn't find any. So, instead, we had to find out what your strongest is," he smiled sweetly. "That was fun."

"That's the first time I have heard of someone being attacked in his strongest spot."

"Cool, isn't it?"

"And _what_ is my strongest spot?"

"You're rational," he smiled again, insolently. "And because you're rational, you're going down. Hard."

Villacorta just looked at him. The Chilean knew very well he was carefully dosing his story to keep him interested, and he was letting him do it, reading not only his words, but also everything behind them. Eliot was aware that this was a two way exchange of information, and that Villacorta was collecting very dangerous info on him, and the entire team, just by listening to the things he did and _didn't_ say, but that risk was acceptable.

"Yeah, I know. _Three_ knee caps," he kept his grin, worried because it was becoming that easy, and _scared_ because he was starting to enjoy this… his control was slipping and he barely managed to stop the chuckle. For a moment he even considered that he was heading toward a nervous breakdown, but it sounded almost lame compared to the fact that he was dead. Damn, he wanted to laugh. "So, last night… I did all the work, giving the others the time to rest a little and to do only the backup and the checks. It involved a lot of driving, and a lot of surveillance…. btw, your lawn is destroyed, you shouldn't let all those cars off your driveway." _Stop that, you idiot, concentrate_. He went to rub his eyes again, to remove the black dots, but he remembered it wouldn't help, so he just put his sunglasses on again, and removed a whip of hair instead. In that moment he felt a stirring of the concentration at the table, something changed. He glanced at Bugueno, who slowly changed his position from relaxed into something akin to tension, leaning slightly, just a few centimeters, toward the table. Looking at him with renewed interest. Villacorta felt it as well, _yep, he was damn good_, and darted an inquiring look at Bugueno.

But, Bugueno's silence was easy to read. "He just remembered that you didn't ask me to take my shirt off," he stepped right on the edge, grinning, and started to balance. "And he is about to ask for it, to show you how attentive and smart he is," he looked at Villacorta and shot one eyebrow up. "I told you he'll be delighted."

Bugueno hissed and hoisted himself up, but Eliot didn't move.

"Enough!" Villacorta didn't raise his voice, he didn't have to. Bugueno slowly sat down, with a quiet snarl.

He had to continue as fast as he could, to run over this dangerous moment and pin Villacorta's attention on something else, but two loud gunshots from the park did that for him. His shirt was forgotten for the moment. All the Chileans stood alerted, he heard some of them behind him moving away to check what was going on.

S&W M&P9C, he recognized the sound. It was time to speed this up.

He glanced at his watch, and started the countdown.

.

.

o.0.o  
>.<p>

.

"The auxiliary engine room is mine. I'm now accessing the computers in the back offices." Hardison's voice was quiet; his concentration was split between the talk on the big screen and his typing, and Nate knew that he didn't want to disturb their concentration. He spared a look to glance at Sophie and Parker; they were both glued to the screen, in fascination, staring at the play that was going on, waiting for the clues and the solutions, and still finding none.

Sophie caught his glance and looked at him with a question in her eyes, but he shook his head. He had nothing to say to her.

"His hackers are not here. Villacorta probably has one or two men in the control room with the cameras, nothing more. The regular surveillance," Hardison continued, pulling up another set of shiny-colored diagrams on the black background. "Do you want me to set their pools boiling, if the going gets tough?"

"If needed."

Hardison looked at him with the same expression as Sophie had, a mixture of fascination and fear, and he shook his head again. He had nothing to say to him, either.

"Eliot sounds nice," Parker said quietly, to no one in particular. "He never talks to us this… nice."

"This is business, Parker," Nate said gently.

"Oh, so we are the pleasure then?"

"Something like that."

"That's weird," she sighed, then raised her eyes to him. They were big and dark in her pale face. "This is worse than watching money burn," she whispered.

They all flinched at those words, but she didn't wait for an answer, she returned her gaze to the screen.

Hardison was the first to break their silence, few minutes after, again quietly. "Just in case, if the alarm thing doesn't work…" Hardison looked at the monitor, "…or if it won't be necessary, I've sent the escape routes to your phones. After all, we are…well, we are armed, aren't we?"

"It won't be necessary, Hardison," Nate said quietly. "Villacorta is dancing dangerous menuet, but he isn't the one leading. He is falling for that hook, line and sinker. And the stick. Hell, there's even a boat attached to it, ready for him to swallow."

"Are we forgetting that the fisherman is still on that boat, Nate?" Sophie threw him a glance over her shoulder.

"No. We are not," he said softly. "He-" he stopped when he saw her face changing into a careless smile when she turned to him completely. She glanced at her watch, almost mimicking Eliot's move. He didn't need that reminder of the passing time.

"This mentioning of Bonnano reminded me…" she said, lightly, with _that_ voice. "…do you know why you hadn't realized that Eliot figured out we were at the hospital, when we watched his conversation with Patrick, when he pressed him?" She kept her eyes on him, steady.

"Not the right time for chatting, Soph," Hardison murmured quietly, not looking at her, typing. Nate waited, feeling something clenched in his gut.

Her eyes swiveled to Hardison and Parker, and then returned to his eyes again. "You were too concentrated on their words. You've listened to him, you haven't _watched him,_" she continued with the same casual note, that didn't raise their attention. "That's why you missed something, something that was way more important than everything that was said. The devil is in the details, Nate."

Hardison looked at her and shook his head in exasperation, and she smiled cheerfully and turned to watch again in silence. But Nate wasn't deceived, for her eyes, hidden behind that smile, were almost black and stricken and numb.

So he repeated the same smile for Hardison, and started to _watch_.

.

.

o.0.o

.

.

The results of the two gunshots would take the time to occupy Villacorta's and Bugueno's attention, so Eliot continued almost without the pause, leading them away from the damn shirt.

"You have to understand one thing, Villacorta. We are professionals, and your men can't operate on our level. You collected some info on our jobs, and all the men we took down, and you're aware, partially, of what we can do. Last night, since we were in a hurry, we did a pretty good job even by _our_ standards. The most enjoyable part of it, for my sake, was knowing I was finding out things you had no idea that were going on."

"That's a brave statement, to claim you know something about somebody else's knowledge."

Eliot waited one moment before he spoke, gently. "You want to say you _knew_ they'd kill Tapia? And how? I thought you'd take more care of your most valuable lieutenant."

Villacorta's expression didn't change, but everything in his eyes stilled. "How do you know," he said softly, "that Tapia was my lieutenant?"

That really caught him unprepared, and he blinked, not even trying to hide his surprise. "How? It was a routine search… I don't think it took more than a few minutes for our hacker. You really thought it was a secret? Well, sorry, if I knew, I wouldn't have mentioned that so lightly," he shook his head. "Anyway, we intercepted suspicious calls and messages, and found out what they were preparing… and I won't tell you who 'they' are, the Mexicans or the Irish."

The stillness in Villacorta's eyes didn't change, it became just a little edgy… but in Bugueno's eyes was a dark, sleazy glint. He was watching him with a very pleased smile, barely hidden.

Bugueno wasn't suspecting… no, he _knew_ he was lying.

He stopped for a moment; his mind was jammed, full of different streams that overlapped and crashed in the middle in the search for a mistake, but he blinked, snapped himself out of it, and continued. _Later_. "It was a smart move, someone knew how to hit you where it hurts the most – in your financials. With Tapia's death, your annual income went to… two thirds? One third?" he went on, trying not to notice that the darkness in Villacorta's eyes grew stronger. "That boy was your golden goose, a genius in the gambling business… It's a shame you didn't train him to learn how to survive. Have you tried to call him?" Villacorta said nothing. Eliot checked the watch, looked him directly into the eyes, and said softly, "If you haven't, I strongly suggest you try to call him. Now."

Villacorta's lips thinned, but he took his phone and hit the speed dial.

When Tapia's phone rang in his pocket, Eliot almost laughed, but managed to stop it; it wasn't music, it was a loud, male voice yelling something about the Riders of Rohan, the oaths that they've taken, and the time to fulfill them all. He was really happy he had kept it on silent until he came here.

He spent a few seconds enjoying the effects on Villacorta's and Bugueno's face; Villacorta's mind was almost visibly going into overload, while Bugueno… well, that was interesting. Bugueno sat as stiff as a board, with his face completely empty.

When they both looked behind him, to the doors, he knew his timing was perfect, and that he calculated the distance correctly.

Villacorta's face was frozen – _will that man ever smile?_ - he controlled his relief so well that he had to block every single muscle in his face to do it, showing nothing. Yet he wasn't the only one that froze.

Bugueno. His face was frozen as well, but in disbelief. Caution was the only thing his face revealed. _What a nice little piece of crap we have in here_… Eliot kept his eyes on Bugueno, probing him, letting out one soft smile that didn't touch his eyes. Bugueno _knew_ he was lying about the Mexicans and Irish planting that bomb. And now he had a pretty good idea why.

"You shouldn't have knocked me out again!" the pissed off voice behind him forced him to turn_,_ slowly, to face Tapia who was standing one step away. Tapia hissed, waving with a gun before his face. "You are really going to pay for that, you know!"

He smiled, he couldn't help it. "Put that gun down, and stop nagging, dangerous gangster. I left you the gun so you could get out. I practically gave you permission to shoot _my_ car."

"So I did. I blew out your lock. Do you know what that means? I fired the gun _inside_ the trunk!" Eliot looked at him better, noticing his pale, greenish face.

"If you puked…" he managed to calm his voice. "Tell me you didn't-"

"I did." Tapia slumped in the chair next to Villacorta. "I warned you about the gun powder."

They stared at each other, pissed.

"I _really_ hesitate to interrupt this warm reunion," Villacorta's voice was soft again, reminding him of the deadly edge in Don Lazzara's voice. He should have known he didn't like being played. "But, I would _really_ like to know what is going on. Matio?"

"Ask _him_," Tapia murmured. "He said he'd explain everything. I don't know shit. He drug me around the whole night, tied up like a sausage, when he wasn't putting me into trunks, repeatedly, and knocking me out."

Villacorta turned his eyes to him.

"I can't explain," Eliot almost shrugged. Almost. "When we found out he was going to be put down, I went to observe the situation, and there he was, going out of his house towards his car. I should have let him sit in that car and just go away… he is your lieutenant, one of the men that were trying to kill us… and I have no idea why I didn't." He stayed silent for a moment, then shook his head. "Nope, I really can't explain. I knocked him out and put him into the car, knowing I'd find some way to use him in all this during the night. After all, I could kill him at any time. But, it happened that I couldn't think of anything clever for him, so I dragged him around. And I deeply regret that. He is annoying, you know that?"

"I'm cheerful person," Tapia ran both his hands through his hair, and sighed. "Mike, bring me a laptop from the back offices, will you? I have numerous transactions on hold, because I couldn't finish my job last evening. And give me a coffee, please." One of the men hurried to follow his orders.

Bugueno stood up, taking his phone. "I have to make a phone call. I'll be right back in a minute." When Villacorta nodded, he went to the railings of the terrace.

"So, you think that bringing me one lieutenant back will result in stopping all this?" Villacorta asked, but he couldn't look at him right now, he had to see what Bugueno would say. His head was in a good position for a few seconds, enough for him to see that he said: 'Adrian, what the hell happened with…', and then he turned his back to them. _Not enough_.

"Nope. We are not fools, and I'm not naïve," he returned his attention to Villacorta again. "This vendetta is only a business for you, a job that has to be done. As I said, you're rational; there's no room for favors in this sort of work, nor do they mean anything. But if you're considering that, be my guest. In fact, I'm here to rob you of a few more lieutenants."

This time Villacorta's patience was thinning. Eliot knew he had a very little time to regain all of his attention again. "Car bombs are the Chilean trademark. Other cartels rarely use it for elimination," he said, taking the slushie again. He finished the move before he realized he did it without thinking, and that it _didn't_ hurt.

He slowly leaned back into the chair, testing the pain, for the moment too stunned to remember that Villacorta was watching him, waiting, losing his patience almost visibly. The black dots started to dance quickly, and his mouth went dry. He wasn't feeling the pain anymore, it just… stopped, gradually, during the last fifteen minutes, and he didn't notice it at all. _Maybe he should pinch himself to see if he is still alive_. Somehow, the thought that Hell might be a place where he would be forced to talk for an eternity sounded... terrifying.

"Your time is running out." Villacorta's quiet, menacing tone made him grin again. _Oh, you have no idea how fast_. This was comical. Damn _glass_ was heavy. He liked it better when he couldn't move because of the pain, that shit he could control… this growing weakness was irreversible, he was going down.

"What… what was the last thing I said?" His voice wavered for a long second before he managed to steady it again, and Villacorta looked him in the eyes, and then down, to his hand that was holding the glass so tight that his knuckles were completely white. _Damn_.

"You _don't_ have an exit strategy, do you?" he asked almost gently. The man knew damn well how to scare people.

Well, as long he was thinking he was scared as shit, this might work. "Nope. I've told you I ain't needing any," he grinned. "I thought you knew that already."

"So why did you agreed to come here and get killed?"

"Because this needed to be done… Black King. Because I'm crazy," he broadened his grin. He didn't have to act, to pretend, he just said it, simply as it was, and Villacorta knew.

Tapia shifted uncomfortably, opening the laptop that was delivered to him, and sighed. "Renan, about the killing…"

"Not a word," Villacorta said without looking at him, and he shut his mouth. "The car bombs," he reminded him of his last sentence.

Eliot glanced at Bugueno who was still talking with someone, far away, and Villacorta followed his eyes. "I was bluffing about other cartels putting the bomb in Matio's car. It was an inside job. Someone doesn't like him, or doesn't like his success. Or simply doesn't like to be puked on. Men are strange, their motives are often funny, and last night was the perfect opportunity to put the blame on someone else. I suggest you ask Adrian about what he was doing last night…if you _know_ who that is. And, if you have a good control room for all those cameras, it would be wise to ask for the recording from the camera that's placed near that railing. I have a feeling the conversation that is going on right now will be an eye-opener. No, Matio, not a word. Keep your head in that laptop, do your numbers, and don't raise your eyes."

Villacorta looked at Bugueno for a few seconds, but Eliot couldn't see him anymore without turning his head; the darkness on the edges of his vision was spreading fast. _Too fast_. He tipped his slushie a little, dropping the orange flower. He slowly bent to pick it up, letting a little more blood to flow to his brain; that quieted the buzzing for a moment.

Villacorta called one of his men, whispered a few orders, and watched him as he was going to the stairway door. He didn't look happy.

"For a control freak, this must be pretty painful, huh?" Eliot asked him, almost empathetic. But he didn't give him the time to answer… time was something he didn't have any more. "You were wrong a few minutes ago when you said that some of your men, allegedly, work for the Mexicans or Irish. They don't. The Mexicans and Irish work _for them_."

"What?" that was Tapia; he raised his head. Villacorta stayed silent, watchful.

"Where's Rojas, Villacorta?" Eliot asked.

"Dead. Confirmed dead."

"I know. I was there. I was trying to find out what the hell the Mexicans were up to, and you can imagine my surprise when he showed up. He was only four meters away."

"I know you were there, we tracked your phone."

"So, you started a slaughter then… funny, you killed him without even knowing he was plotting against you."

"Rojas was not plotting against me." Villacorta's voice was arctic now, and that alerted all of his nearby men. Their steps closer were silent, as was the drawing of their guns. It gave him a nice opportunity to evaluate their arsenal. The Chileans' taste in guns was more versatile than the other cartels'. "As you probably know already," Villacorta continued, "he was the one who was in charge of _dealing_ with other cartels. And trust me, he dealt with them very successfully, he destroyed more of them than you can count. If he just showed up there, he would have been killed without mercy, and without a second thought."

Eliot took the silver phone and pulled up the picture of a smiling Rojas at the table with the heads of the Mexican cartel, with the Marco's Tavern logo lit behind them. "Yep, those smiles look pretty merciless to me."

Villacorta stared for a moment, and again, he couldn't tell what the hell he was thinking about it. The only thing he knew, was the fact that he had to continue, to press now when there was a possibility that his armor was shaken, when everything that he said was working behind those unreadable eyes.

Bugueno returned and sat in his chair; Tapia sighed and kept his head low, pretending he was occupied with his screen. Villacorta didn't look at Bugueno at all, as if he wasn't there, but he did look at Eliot.

"Are you _conning_ me, Eliot Spencer?" he asked with only a faint ironic edge leaking into his voice.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," he shook his head, but then leaned forward a little, keeping his gaze. "No, Villacorta, this ain't conning," he whispered, his voice hoarse but clear. "I'm surrounding you."

He waited for a reaction, for anything that he could recognize in those distant, shuttered eyes, but it suddenly hit him; he didn't have to wait for that. He didn't _need_ it. And he smiled. "You said we are in the middlegame. No, we are not. We were there when I came here; this is the endgame now, Villacorta, and all my moves are right there where I wanted them. This battlefield is full of my flags, not yours. You're surrounded, and in your corner, Black King."

There it was… the sudden flash of annoyance, the quick narrowing of his eyes, and Villacorta opened his mouth to speak, only to shut it in a thin line, averting his gaze from him, to something behind him. For a second Eliot thought that the man he'd sent to bring the recording of Bugueno's phone conversation was returning, but Villacorta's eyes narrowed even more. This was something new. And something new always meant trouble.

"Urgent delivery," a voice, unknown, said behind him, and he turned to see what was going on, again without any effort. The delivery boy was accompanied by two Chileans, carrying a big package; the boy looked around with interest. His eyes went wide when the man with the scanner swept over the package. "No metal," he reported, and Eliot flinched. As if bombs were only made of metal.

In fact, a delivered bomb would be the perfect solution for all this, he grinned again. The fact that he would be killed too would free the team of all suspicion, no one would think they'd killed Villacorta, and everything would be, _finally_, finished. Damn, _finally_, some rest. He almost regretted that the voices weren't in his head anymore, they could buffer this urge to laugh, they could laugh while he was staying serious, and without them his control was becoming almost impossible to keep. He took the other slushie. The ice wasn't melted, but he couldn't feel the coldness of the glass at all, it felt like he was holding something soft and warm.

Villacorta was signing the receipt and no one was paying attention to him, not even Bugueno, and he rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. He was still freezing, but his forehead was wet, the sweat was starting to burn his eyes. That was strange; he wasn't quite sure what was going on. _That_ cold he could feel, and the tremors that ran through him, forcing him to clench his teeth.

The delivery boy was gone when he looked at Villacorta again, and he almost cursed, realizing he had lost track of time; his mind was slipping. _Hurry up. No time left_. _He was going down any minute now_. If Villacorta prolonged all of this with some stupid cake now, he would simply kill him, damn it, he had no time for-

Villacorta opened the package, and his hand stood still in the air, still holding the cover. His face was _white_.

Bugueno came to look in the box, and jumped away, hissing. Tapia was already puking into a patch of grass; again, he missed his peeking into the box.

He hoisted himself to his feet; the distress on the terrace was so intense that no one thought about stopping him, or aiming a gun at him. Everything around him was spinning so badly that he had to lean with both hands on the table to avoid swaying, but it looked natural, as if he just came closer to look.

Several Gary Barclay's heads were in several boxes, moving in a circle from left to right. He blinked to clear his vision, and waited until the heads merged into one. Yep, definitely Barclay. _Don't laugh_. Laughing would kill him. _Don't laugh, idiot_. It wouldn't be polite, in this situation. _Don't. Fucking. Laugh. _Jesus, The Pissed One, this was way too much.

He slumped back into his chair; even if he fainted now, they would think he was just shocked by the sight, and he bit his lip to control himself, to fix his features into something neutral. _Don't laugh_. It wasn't the time for jokes about bowling.

The Pissed One knew the beheading was a trademark of the Mexican cartels, he was still putting the blame on them, not knowing that Villacorta knew the Irish were involved… but this was, in spite of that, a nice touch. He just wished it wasn't so fucking hilarious.

It took all of his control to impose order on his mind again, an effort that was almost physical, but when Villacorta sat, and when the box was removed from the table, he managed to return to the present. If this didn't crack that impenetrable armor, he really didn't know what would.

"One of your flags?" Villacorta's voice was deadly now. He wondered how he would look when he smiled, but he forgot to wonder how he would look when he was really mad… and it was a brutal sight to look at.

"Nope," he smiled. "He was alive when I left him."

Villacorta nodded. It took a second before he realized he wasn't nodding at him, when a vicious blow struck the side of his head, catching him under the eye. He regained his balance and looked up at the man that hit him with a gun.

"Ouch?" he said politely. His body was giving out very rapidly now, but it was a good thing that it gave up the pain first. The man took one step back, staring at him.

Tapia puked again.

"You're disturbing him," he glanced at Tapia, and darted a disapproving look at Villacorta.

"He'll soon have enough reasons to become insane, not disturbed."

"C'mon. Knock it off, Renan." Yep, he also knew how to put a deadly grin on his face. It was so easy now, at the end of everything, when all the cards were on the table. _And heads. Oh god, don't laugh. _"You don't give a shit about them. Barclay was just a useful pawn. Yes, you'll find out who killed him, and avenge him, but just because you _have to_. You're rational, you bastard, you do it just because you calculated the effects on the people that work for you, and on your enemies. It's _useful_ to be seen as the one who kills if someone touches his property. Can't fool me. Never could."

"It's called a strategy." Villacorta met his eyes with the same snarl. "And you can't fool me either, I know what are you doing. Cuchillo, out, can't talk, accused of being a cop. Rojas, dead, can't talk, accused of working with the Mexicans. Bugueno…" he glanced at Bugueno who flinched, confused. "Barclay, dead, can't talk. Who was working with Barclay? Irish? Armenians?"

"Nope. Barclay was working for me. Even the pawns have their own pawns."

"That's… hilarious." Villacorta leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers, almost amused now. "Barclay was loyal."

Eliot took Barclay's phone and threw it on the table in front of Villacorta. "Do you want to call him, too?" he snarled. "Yes, he was loyal. I've never doubted his loyalty. And he was alive when I left him last night. Our first meeting in the depository failed because the Armenians were after him. I almost got caught and killed too, the only thing that saved me was that one of them recognized me and remembered that the Chileans are after me as well. That put us on the same side… but a very fragile same side."

"In fact…" Tapia raised his head from the bush, his hazed eyes unfocused. "It is true. I was there. He didn't tell the Armenians I'm Chilean, they would have killed me. He said if I didn't shut up, he might be forced to kill me _and_ them, too."

Villacorta shot him an irate look, but said nothing.

"You can think exactly three things, Villacorta," Eliot continued. _Fuck you. Speeding up time. No prisoners_. "The first, that I was simply close by chance when he was killed, and I took his phone to mess with you. The second, you can think he gave it to me, because my phone was smashed in the back street of McRory's, where our second meeting was. I think the pieces are still there," he looked at Tapia who was slowly dragging himself to his chair, wiping his mouth, looking greener than the grass. "That's why I had to knock you out again and close you in the trunk; you weren't supposed to see him there."

"You did a lousy job," Tapia murmured. "I wasn't out completely. I thought I've heard his voice in one moment, but I couldn't be sure, being in the trunk with a buzzing head… I remember I thought he was there to set me free."

"If I knew you'd heard him, I would have killed you."

Tapia frowned. "I didn't hear what you were saying! I just heard his voice in one moment."

"Enough," Villacorta _whispered_, his rage boiling visibly, and Tapia went white. Even his other men flinched when they heard that sound, and a frosty silence fell on the terrace.

Perfect time for the final attack.

Eliot gathered all of his remaining strength into his voice, ignoring the buzzing in his ears and the fact that he could only see Villacorta clearly, everything else was gray and fuzzy. He slowly got up, and leaned on the table with his palms.

"You can think the last thing, the third, Villacorta…" he growled, the raspy, labored sound, low and deadly. "… you can forget all this bullshit, you can remember who I am, and you can think that I simply killed him. Because I wouldn't like you to forget with whom are you dealing with." He kept his eyes on his, eye contact with a snake. "I want you to realize how deeply you are screwed, how five people, in one night, played with you, and your entire dangerous, murderous cartel, how we infiltrated everything that you have, and walked safe and sound in and out of your webs. You couldn't kill _five_ people… you had no idea about the attacks that were prepared on you… you had no clue that your men are working behind your back, and that this day could easily be the last day of your life," he laughed then, a short, choked sound that almost made him cough, but he simply couldn't stop it. "You. Don't. Control. Anything. We do. We have your cartel, inside and out, right now as we speak, we know everything about it, and everything about every lousy little gang in this fucking town!" he tilted his head a little, erasing every trace of the smile. "And please, _do_ continue to suspect this is all a set up – that we are powerful enough to start all this, to move the entire town and direct everything on your head, just to show you what we _can_ do when we are really motivated. Do you remember what I had told you in our phone call two days ago? That we are the right people for that list of yours. Now you know what I wanted to say by that. You are the one who cannot retreat now, Black King, there's no more lines behind you, no more pieces that can guard you. From me. From us." He let the silence spread for five seconds. Nobody moved, nobody breathed. "Now, knowing what we have done in only one night," he whispered, his gaze fixed on Villacorta's eyes. "Try to imagine what we can do to you in days. Weeks. Months," he smiled, a sweet, ferocious smile. "You're screwed. That's a fact. You have no idea that Don Lazzara is at your back, too. You know nothing about the Russians. But guess what, dangerous gangster, _we do know_. Do you want to live, Renan Villacorta? If you do, I have a suggestion… after all, you're rational. What the rational man does when he suddenly realizes that something, someone, the force that could destroy him, who was his main problem, can become part of the solution?" He leaned back, not releasing Villacorta from his stare. "What would you do, if you have that force on your side, instead against you?"

Villacorta leaned in his chair, tapping his lower lip with his finger, and silence stretched into infinity while he thought.

"What exactly," Villacorta finally said, only the slightest edge in his calm, leveled voice, "do you have in mind when you say: 'on my side'?"

And Villacorta smiled.

. 

o.0.o

.

.

"With us on your side, you live. Without us, you die," Eliot said simply.

He kept his stare on the Chilean, then first slowly straightened his back, removing his palms from the table, and with the same careful move, returned to his chair.

"Though, if you want the details, you'll have to wait." When he spoke again, his voice was almost calm and polite. "I'm just the pawn, I'm here to prepare the field for the terms of your capitulation," he smiled, softening the edge that still remained in his voice. "But, before anything concrete, dismiss your order for killing my team. We don't want a last minute tragedy, do we?"

Villacorta nodded to Tapia who grinned and pulled out his phone. Eliot didn't bother to listen to what he was saying, he could trust him to do it very thoroughly. Villacorta's choosing Tapia instead of Bugueno was a message itself. _Where the hell was that guy that Villacorta had sent to bring the recording?_

"So, you were right when you told me you don't need the exit strategy," Villacorta said lightly, the smile still on his face. It suited him. There was no anger, annoyance, anything what would show he was disturbed by this outcome – just one more business transaction for him. "I'm not worried about the dying part – for that I have enough men around me. I'm interested only in your ability to use all that info you said you collected on the other gangs. I _am_ rational. Killing someone who has the skills that I need, and can use, is not good for business. Especially when those skills are far better than anything I've seen before in this line of work. What are your other conditions, if any?"

"The second thing needed, will be allowing my team access to your inner circle, if they need to. They will soon contact you, so you can arrange all the details with them. The third… it's more a warning than a condition… we are extremely expensive. But, that also goes into the official negotiation part, not my business."

"So, your team of troubleshooters can solve all those problems with the other gangs, before they actually do harm to my business? I don't need the estimation or the assessment, I need solving it thoroughly, without loose ends."

"We are especially good at tidying up all lose ends," he smiled again; he, just for a second, thought about all _his_ loose ends that he needed to tie up and count before coming here, and he barely restrained himself from giggling. He reached for the glass and forced himself to lift it from the table.

"Good," Villacorta nodded and took his phone. "We have a deal. Now excuse me, I have to start a few things."

_Hurry up, dammit_. He blinked a few times, slowly, knowing that he had just stepped into the most dangerous phase; the decreasing of the adrenaline level, with the threat finally gone. Even in the best conditions it was a quick fall from a very high place into a deep hole. Now, it was devastating, it left him barely able to hold the fucking slushie; he managed to keep the glass upright only with both hands. It required only the slightest deliberate relaxation of his will for the oblivion of unconsciousness to sweep over him, and with every minute that passed it was harder and harder to keep it away. He couldn't endure this much longer.

Villacorta finished his call and hit another number.

He couldn't leave before he was completely sure that this was it – he needed to confirm everything with Villacorta once again before he left, excusing himself with work that had to be started. Just like he collected all the strength to his voice just a few minutes ago, now he started to collect it for getting up and leaving the terrace with steady steps. He almost felt sick when he remembered what was still before him; leaving the terrace. The stairs, then entering the park. Endless steps. Going to the car, and fucking driving to somewhere far enough so when someone found his body nothing connected him to this. He had no idea how the hell he was supposed to do all that, but he dismissed that and decided to concentrate just on the first stage… going out from the terrace, from all the eyes that would be watching him.

He forced his eyes to stay open. Damn, the pain would be useful now; it would snap him from this strange numbness, and clear his thoughts that were becoming sluggish and slow… and it wasn't a good time for that.

Villacorta lowered his phone a few centimeters, and said something to him.

Right at that moment he realized he made a huge mistake by letting his concentration slip; Villacorta's words sounded awfully far away, and everything went slow, blurred and completely gray. He was falling apart, he realized when a sudden burst of rage went through him, when he almost got up and told Villacorta to finish this fucking game and let him go and finally die… but he bit his lip again, stopped those words, and tapped his ear instead. "Will you repeat that, please? I was listening to the last updates from my team."

"Lydia sends her greetings," Villacorta said. _Who the fuck was Lydia_? For someone who claimed to know everything about everyone, asking that question would be very strange, so he just raised his eyebrows in some sort of neutral reaction. "She said you'd have to talk about burning her car some day."

Ah, _that_ Lydia. "Still in custody?" Of course she was… she was arrested only last evening, though it felt like years passed since then.

"No, why she would be in jail? You took both of her weapons, and the security found her, one employee of the hospital, tied to the bed of a demented, runaway patient. The hospital will be lucky if she doesn't press charges. She returned this morning to her job, to renew her cover, just in case. She'll leave in a few days, without any suspicion. Ah, that reminded me of something…" Villacorta put the phone back to his ear. "Darling, those papers we spoke about last evening… send them, nevertheless, just in case. Yes, to Tapia, he's here with me." he listened to response and shook his head. "No, just fifteen minutes more, I promise, then I'm heading to meet them. Of course. You too." Villacorta lowered his phone, but just to go through his contacts and hit another number. Eliot suppressed himself from gritting his teeth. Low growling _wouldn't _make him finish with that faster. Villacorta started a quick exchange with someone and he couldn't hear the words anymore, they were covered by white noise, he just tried to focus enough to notice an eventual change in his behavior.

It took almost half a minute before it hit him, the true meaning of the conversation with the redhead. Fuck this slowness and this strange dumbness, he should have realized it much faster, he thought as the adrenaline rushed through him once more, clearing his eyes a little.

Yep, he thought, it was too good to be true, too fucking easy, there had to be something that would ruin it at the end. His luck was finally spent, he obviously spent every bit of it throughout the night… and now everything came crashing down. Completely.

He might not have an exit strategy… but he surely had a backup plan.

He closed his eyes for a second, enjoying the darkness.

He felt no regret because of this sudden change. It would have been great if the team was allowed to come near Villacorta without the danger of being killed… this shit was all about that, after all… and he _did_ regret a little that he wouldn't be there to see what horror they would unleash on him – but in the short term, this was even better. It was safer for them. No Villacorta, when the team was cleared of being a threat, meant no need to come close to the danger.

He detached his back from the chair, sitting upright now, and put the slushie on the table.

Villacorta's men were relaxed by now, when he stopped being the threat, and they spread, slowly, all around the table, not paying full attention to him.

He needed just one second to reach Villacorta, and one second to snap his neck. The third second he'd need to kill Bugueno with one blow to his throat.

In that first second they'd draw their weapons. In a second he'd be killed, shot multiple times, with no hope of continuing that one step further. They were professionals; their reaction might be even faster.

He was one second short.

He leaned forward a little, calculating the angles, counting every sort of weapon of every man he saw, their positions, and their line of fire, trying to find a route that would make him kill both of them, while at the same time leaving Tapia out of the eventual crossfire.

If he killed Bugueno first, and _then_ went on to Villacorta, that would give him that one second, because he'd be closing in on their boss, too close for secure shots… they'd hesitate, scared that they might kill Villacorta. Yep, he would be shot, but only two of them were in a good position for a good aim, without Villacorta in their line of fire. Two bullets wouldn't stop him, at least not in that last second.

No more Villacorta, no more Bugueno… just Tapia. Princess would inherit the throne, the princess who didn't understand the violence, the princess who wouldn't continue with killing _anybody_. And one, too, who wouldn't last long in this mess.

He took the silver phone and typed a message, keeping a finger on the Send button.

Waiting.

He grinned when he realized he felt relieved… it would be a lot easier to make those two quick steps, and two even quicker moves of his hands, than going through all the phases of leaving from here, all that walking and driving.

"This was my last job for them," he said when Villacorta ended his call, at the moment before he hit another button. "I'm not working with them anymore."

Villacorta took his cup of coffee and smiled. "That is a happy coincidence. I happen to be short one pawn. Are you interested?"

"I will be delighted to hear more about those conditions," he smiled. He sent the message, and turned off the phone. No replies; that would mess with his concentration. He needed every last bit of it now.

Then he smiled again, putting his arms on the table.

_He was tired, so damn tired of everything_. But now, he was as calm as he had ever been, in his entire life. _Finally, the peace_.  
>.<p>

.

o.0.o

.

.

"We didn't need the damn surveillance van for this," Hardison murmured almost breathlessly. "We needed the damn popcorn!" he choked the laughter, shaking his head. He couldn't stop grinning. "If this is what war negotiations look like, I have to read that Chinese guy's book! He just… ended this killing shit, just like that, and at the same time, got the fucking _permission_ from Villacorta for us to come close to him, to enter and access everything that he has, we've got the _invitation_ to destroy him! And he made him _pay_ us for doing it! Nate, just for the record… did he just heap up an extraordinary amount of lies, wrap it up in empty threats, _after_ cutting off a man's head, and serve it all to Villacorta who, actually, bought all of that?" He didn't wait for the answer; Nate was plucking through the bags, probably not listening to him at all. Sophie was the one who kept watching the screen so they didn't miss anything important. "And, we can't forget that he created something that makes the war in the Middle East just a neighborhood quarrel, poured all that on the poor man, and then told him we can actually save him from the thing that he created to destroy him in the first place? I do hope he kept notes on his doings last night, or solving this would-" he stopped babbling to check the monitor, just in case; Villacorta was talking on the phone, and Eliot was sitting, relaxed. Nothing to worry about.

God, this was finally over… the relief was so overwhelming that his hands were shaking more now than ten minutes before. The next thing; wait until Eliot said his goodbyes and called Nate to report what was done, and then grab him and deliver him to Betsy. Bitching all the way, of course. He was really looking forward to the bitching part, he had hours and hours of it prepared during all those sleepless nights full of throwing up. He grinned again when he realized that he had missed him terribly all those days; he got so used to his annoyance and growling and doing all this without him by his side was… empty. Parker smiled at him, her eyes bright and finally without fear; god, how he hated to look at her eyes all those days, it _hurt_.

He peeked at Sophie. And held his breath.

Her profile revealed little; she was staring at the monitor with the same concentration which she had while watching the most dangerous parts of the conversation, and her features were calm. But her hands were in her lap, her fingers entwined, clutched, and completely white.

He quickly glanced at the screen, noticing nothing different… but something was disturbing her. He looked better at Nate who was putting tiny things in his pockets, his face closed and cold, and with a cold sensation crawling up his spine, Hardison realized that something was wrong, terribly wrong.

"What?" he whispered.

Nate opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, shaking his head. "Sophie…?" he said finally, turning to another bag. The one with the weapons.

"We have to get him out of there, as in now," she explained, turning to him, and Hardison saw her eyes laced with fear. "We were monitoring his condition during the last ten minutes, it's rapidly going down. He is already in deep shock, and I don't know how he is able to speak at all… or stay conscious. He can't just retreat now because it would be suspicious, he has to stay a little longer, and every minute is dangerous; he is barely able to control laughing, he's half delirious already. He'll simply fall apart right there, he'll snap any minute now. If Villacorta finds out now that he was shot, everything will go south. After all that shit he pulled on him, even the alarms won't be enough to save him; he'll kill him right there, with his own hands, and _then_ think about cops and hiding the body."

"You're sure?" he swallowed, looking at his relaxed sitting, he couldn't see any change.

"Completely. Hardison…" her voice cracked a little. "His chest is not moving on the right side… his lung collapsed. He's dying… and he is maybe so deep into shock that he can't even realize that, and move from there in time. And I can't read his posture correctly anymore; he looks as if he's half prepared for the attack, completely tensed, without the cause."

He just stared at her.

Ping.

He looked at Nate who was putting a few earbuds in his pocket, with empty eyes.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

Parker was frozen, like an animal that stares at the hunter one second before the shot that would kill her.

Ping ping ping ping ping ping ping ping ping.

What the hell… he turned to the monitors on the far side of the table, where the park cameras were displaying their results, giving the sound warnings. He jumped to see what was going on, pulling the close up of the cameras that reported movement, noticing that they were spread all over the outer parts of the park. Small groups of two, three and four men were entering the park area at the same time, from all around, more than forty of them.

"Why would Villacorta call so many of his men to come now?" Nate asked quickly coming to him.

He choked, feeling his belly freezing. "It's worse," he whispered. "It's not Villacorta, Nate… these are the Mexicans. They are coming to kill Villacorta. They know they have time, the police can't respond quickly… it's going to be a slaughter."

Nate stared at the Mexicans that were slowly, unsuspiciously, walking, and he knew that his brain was overheating, arranging all of it.

Hardison knew he would, many, many days after that day, keep asking himself at what moment, exactly, everything crashed down, when he heard a cry from the other side of the van. In that moment he knew it was then. He knew the sound that would wake him at night, repeating itself over and over again, the sound that sent everything straight to hell.

"Nate!" Sophie was on her feet now. "Something changed, something's wrong! He's going to kill Villacorta any second now! He just told him he's not working with us anymore; he's clearing us, separating us from killing him!"

They both jumped to her screen, and now even Hardison could see the change in Eliot's stance; the slow, controlled leaning forward, like a lazy snake.

"Hardison, give me the last minute of it," Nate whispered, his gaze fixed on the screen. He quickly typed, pulling up the last minute of their conversation for Nate on another monitor, fast forward, slowing it every few seconds.

"There, stop," Nate pointed out. "Villacorta's phone call – normal speed now." They watched those seconds, checking the real time screen at the same time. "Papers…what damn papers? Damn, I know… Hardison, the redhead nurse. Lydia worked in the archive, she had access to all the paper trails, all the notes, all the instructions, the check lists, the reports from surgery. Eliot told Villacorta he skipped the surgery part and went directly into SICU… and she's going to send Villacorta his entire medical record. Now. They'll check his bandages immediately."

Hardison slowly, blindly, slumped in his chair, watching Eliot who smiled, answering something to Villacorta, his both arms now on the table. His eyes were glowing while he watched his target.

And 'ping' sounds didn't stop, adding an eerie tone to their watching that slow preparation for death.

Hardison also knew all the questions that would torture him for the rest of his life, all of them beginning with a 'what if'. But the main question that was drumming inside his head in a loop, without a beginning or an end, was: How could everything go downhill and fall apart so thoroughly, so final?

Nate's hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him, snapping him out of it, and he averted his gaze from the screen. "Think of something." He met yet another pair of glowing eyes. "Stay with them."

"You're not thinking of going in there-" he broke off. "There's no time, Nate, we're too far away! You can't stop him, for God's sake, it's too late!"

"Think of something. Deal with those papers," Nate repeated. "Don't let the two of them out of the van."

"Nate, it's insane! You know I would do anything for him… but the one thing I _can't _do for him – let another one get killed in vain! We can't lose both of you! There's nothing you can do now! You can't get there in time, and even if you can, you'll be caught in the slaughter, no one will survive that! The Mexicans-"

"Hardison… you're either on my side. By my side. Or in my fucking way!"

"Your stride is a meter twenty five, a little longer when you hurry or run," Parker whispered. "Ninety- five seconds to _Estrella_'s main door, forty seconds to the second floor."

More than two minutes. Eliot could kill Villacorta ten times in those two minutes.

He looked at the screen, where the rattlesnake was raising his head for attack, with that sweet, sweet smile, then at Parker and Sophie, as stiff as two statues, and finally at Nate, whose head was tilted, his eyes digging holes in him. Nate's hand was still squeezing his shoulder, keeping him immobile, unable to do anything except to look at him. "You decide at what moment you should turn around and run," Nate went on. "And when you run… don't look back."

"To hell with that," he finally whispered. "If we go down, we'll go down together. Go, get him out of there. The papers…I'll think of something. GO!"

Nate nodded. He turned around to glance at the girls; Hardison couldn't see if he smiled or not. And he was gone in the next second, leaving them all still standing, staring at each other in frozen disbelief.

His eyes swiveled to the monitor with the entire park on it, where the green dots were closing in around them, closing them all in a deadly trap, advancing slowly, millimeter by millimeter. Three of them in the van might survive, maybe… but Nate and Eliot, in the middle of the circle, with forty Mexicans and twenty Chileans, in the key point of that bloodbath… they didn't have any chance.

Hardison grabbed his keyboard. "Parker, sit there and monitor the Mexicans. They'll need at least fifteen minutes to carefully surround the restaurant, to come to their positions and to adjust their actions – this is not something you do in a hurry. Sophie, you watch the terrace and report any change, I won't be able to watch it."

They both did what he had told them, with the quick, terrified smiles, and he thought for a second for some sort of encouragement… but only thing he could produce was one: "Boy, we are soooo going to fucking die!"

And he laughed, an insane, crazy laugh, and he laughed while he was typing, desperately trying to race with death.

The hell was about to break loose.


	32. Chapter 32

**It's not the end yet - I have to clear this mess :D**

**Thank you for your patience, people :D  
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Chapter 32

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The damn world was moving in fast forward and in slow motion at once, filling his brain with simultaneous urgent crises, and not giving him time to think about any of them for more than a second.

Nate cursed under his breath, shutting out all the voices from the van. No, not all; he filtered the sounds, dismissing their comments, listening to Eliot and Villacorta via Sophie's earbud.

"I need silence. Speak only if it's necessary," he warned them although he knew they would take care not to disturb anything important. He needed silence _now_, to think, to try to sort all this chaos in his head.

"You've got some more time," Sophie whispered. "Two Chileans are now between Eliot and Villacorta, he is explaining something to them; Eliot is waiting."

Fourteen damn minutes before the Mexicans attack; he had no idea what to think about it, much less how to solve it… but that thought helped a little. He simply put that matter behind him. He'd start to think about the attack after ten minutes, and concentrate now on the most present danger. He knew only one thing for certain about the Mexicans, they were useful.

"Hardison, we have to use those Mexicans and let them kill Villacorta. That will solve everything, this time for good."

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Got it. I'm working on the papers. Have no idea if this will work or not – start working on plan B… or whatever plans you have in mind."

Plans? He had no time to make plans; he only had time to _count_ the things that had to be done. The first thing, to stop Eliot at any cost. The second, to solve, somehow, the proof that he was shot, the thing that would kill them both in the next minute when those papers arrived. The third thing, get Eliot out of there without showing everyone he was barely conscious. The fourth, continue the negotiations with Villacorta and make sure he stayed on that terrace so the Mexicans could kill him. The fifth, take them both alive from the middle of sixty men shooting at each other.

He was climbing the stairs to the front lobby when he heard the sound of an arriving message, and he checked the sender, not slowing down a bit. "_clear the mess- protect Tapia- stop Don Lazzara's attack on his casino"_

Damn, that was it; the time had just went to zero. Killing time. If he knew that the Mexicans were about to do the same thing… he hit Eliot's number but his phone was off.

He was already taking four steps at a time, counting the seconds, waiting to hear fired guns… but when he burst onto the second floor, he stopped himself, forced himself to relax his moves and slow his breathing.

Nate Ford didn't come to Villacorta to grab the hitter and wildly throw him from the terrace, no matter that it would, in only one move, solve pretty much all the trouble… no, he just came, slowly, to take over the negotiations after his pawn settled the primary terms of the truce. That was an impression Villacorta had to receive with his first step on that terrace.

So he made that first step, fucking aware that he had no time to think of anything, and that he was entering this entirely empty handed. He knew Hardison couldn't do anything with those papers; there was no way he could hack scanned documents, the actual papers that the redhead held in her hands… and he knew he would have one hell of a job in twisting the truth in front of guns that were ready to fire.

Villacorta saw him at once, giving a sign to his men to let him pass, but Nate only had eyes for the man before him; still sitting, but so obviously ready to start killing that he couldn't believe that the Chileans weren't already jumping away in panic. He would.

He had no means to know what Eliot's reaction would be, how deeply he was already unstrung, and it was possible that he was putting his life in the hands of a man who wasn't able to think coherently, who was delirious and in a severely distraught state of mind.

One damn wrong word could kill them both.

He stopped one step behind Eliot's chair.

"Good morning, Renan Villacorta." he said simply, at the same time putting his hand on Eliot's shoulder, to stop any movement. And he kept it there. Eliot didn't turn around, he remained frozen, and Nate could feel that stiffness when he tightened his grip. _Don't. Move_.

"Ah, the White King. Soon we shall have the entire board on this terrace, I see."

The muscles under his hand moved, the tension he felt came within one step of the explosion; he knew the helpless rage Eliot must have felt right now, not knowing if Nate came in here without any preparation, right to his death, simply jumping onto the ride without any idea of what was going on – that thinking would drive even a completely healthy man insane, and in these circumstances he could expect a complete breakdown.

"There are eight of them," Nate smiled, watching the Chilean.

"Eight of what?" Villacorta frowned.

"You'd asked him why he'd chosen the weakest piece on the board," he continued. Before he finished his sentence, he felt the tension decreasing, the muscles relaxed barely visibly; the message was received, Eliot now knew he had been listening everything and that he knew what play was going on. Nate knew - and the large lump in his throat cleared a little - by judging the speed of his apprehension, that maybe, just maybe, they both might live through this. He slowly unclenched his grip, his hand just gently resting on his shoulder for one more second, and then took a chair beside him, in front of Villacorta. "You may be rational, but he is practical. You should expect the practical man to take the piece with eight lives." Then, for the first time, he turned his head and looked at Eliot.

Dear God. For a second he couldn't believe that Villacorta hadn't figured it out, but then he remembered he didn't know him before this. His face was paler than the faces of the dead in the body bags, the lines of pain engraved in dark shadows around his eyes, completely worn out. It was terrifying to see how weak he was, how horrible the exhaustion that radiated from his eyes was, from every slow move. Villacorta knew nothing about his speed and grace, he couldn't see the difference. But Nate saw the broken remains of that strength and grace, ragged, shaky and weak, and he realized that he was dying, really dying; and that maybe they'd come too late.

He felt his heart sinking terribly, and all the words disappeared for a moment; his mind was empty.

But then Eliot moved. Nate watched in fascination as a regathering happened in front of his eyes, invisible to others; just the slight focusing of his eyes, the rearranging of his center of gravity, a five-centimeter long move of his right leg, the invisible straightening of his shoulders, and he knew the hitter was in functioning mode again, locked and loaded. He only hoped that it didn't spend all his reserves that he he'd collected for killing those two.

Eliot glanced at Villacorta, almost with regret in his eyes, and then looked again at him. "I deeply, _deeply_ hate you right now," he slowly said and his voice almost went into his usual drawl. And Nate knew what he meant; _thank you, you bastard, for making me do things again, for continuing all this when everything was almost finished_.

"I own you," he answered lightly. "You rest when I say you rest. Your contract is still in my hands." He looked at Villacorta and smiled. "You'll have to wait, I'm not letting him go yet. He has a few more jobs to do for us."

Tapia's laptop gave one ping sound, warning of an incoming email.

Right at that moment Eliot smiled, an aweless, challenging smile, and his eyes slowly swept over the terrace, returning to him again. Eliot knew what the trigger for his coming in here was. Whatever strength he kept for killing those men, he obviously still had it stored for this final ending, whatever it was. Because he had to, Nate realized, his throat tightening again. Because now, here, the hitter had one member of the team that he had to protect. He wished he could tell him it was time to stop, to rest, that the tables were turned now and that he was the priority here, but he wouldn't say that even if he could; that instinct could keep him alive for a little longer. And to keep him alive enough to take him out of here, he would use it, without mercy.

"Wanna dance, Nate Ford?" Eliot whispered.

This was going to be one hell of a dance, Nate realized, feeling one side of his mouth going up, in an involuntary dark smile. The last play, together, but without any means to let the other clearly know what they were saying and doing, not in front of those keen black eyes that would read everything suspicious. One step forward, that had to be followed correctly – the alternative was death. One step aside, one wrong word, move, thought… and everything would come crashing down.

He locked his eyes on his, searching, inquiring; they were full of hate and love, madness and control, fear and laughter. Victory and defeat were still fighting inside Eliot, but when he saw one tiny spark of challenge, he knew he wasn't stopped yet. They might die in here, both of them… but now he was certain they would die giving their best.

"There is a Bulgarian proverb," he said, still staring into the eyes of the man with whom he had shared a wordless understanding for years. "'If you want to drown, don't torture yourself with shallow water.' Somehow, I think you've mastered that level. I'll just try to follow."

"That'll do," Eliot nodded. He nodded back.

And they both, slowly, turned their heads and their eyes on Villacorta, in one smooth, tuned move. And smiled.

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o.0.o

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They were close. But at the same time, so far away that it seemed they weren't there at all.

Parker was staring at the park cameras and the images of the Mexicans that were slowly closing in, and her mind was automatically sorting them into lines and paths. She couldn't help it; they weren't people, they were just obstacles, green dots and lines with default trajectories.

She looked at Sophie's screen with the terrace, and then played the blue and red lines of the building's escape routes in her mind. "We are too far away. He can't walk. He will slow Nate down, too," she whispered while the steps, speeds, meters and seconds started to dance in her head, sorting themselves into results. "We have to get closer."

"They're surrounding the building in one broad, thick circle," Hardison responded absentmindedly, typing. "We can't drive through them, they can not notice us."

She returned her gaze to the park cameras and green dots. An impenetrable circle of living men, moving, closing in, looking all around themselves.

It was impossible to drive Lucille through that laser grid, it would be almost impossible to _walk_ past them unnoticed.

But this time, on the other side were Nate and Eliot, not jewels or money.

"Buckle up," she smiled.

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o.0.o

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When Tapia opened the email, Nate saw his hesitation and quick glance to the side; the boy wasn't happy with its contents. Yet, he turned his laptop to Villacorta, letting him see the scanned documents.

Villacorta took his time to study the screen, and his face was closed and pleasant at the same time, just as his eyes were. They were becoming more pleasant with every line he read.

Eliot took off his sunglasses and carefully wiped them with his jacket; he didn't put them back on, he held them in his hands, and his eyes slid sideways for a second, letting Nate to see his pupils of normal size. _No morphine, clear mind_. That was good to know, though he had seen it just seconds before.

"Thank you, Matio," Villacorta finally said, turning to them again. "It seems Bugueno was right in his suspicions, after all. Gunshot wound. Surgery. Cuchillo's bullet."

His men were reading his words and his tone without orders, Nate noticed; they closed in, and one of them even went to bring Cuchillo back to consciousness. They were listening to what was said, and they were an active part of this play. That _wasn't_ a good thing to know. He smiled, carefully cherishing one idea in his mind, but he looked at Eliot first. "Will you do this part?" he asked lightly. "It's not fair to just jump in and take over with my ideas, if you have more things to say."

"Naah, I'm tired. Do your job, I'll sit here and enjoy it. Unless you're still evaluating my work; in that case I'll be happy to babble more. Have a few ideas myself."

"I would love to hear those ideas," he really meant it, and he didn't have to pretend to smile. "If they are in the same tone as the rest of it, it would be an interesting experience."

"You have more style, you do it."

"No, I insist."

"You're really annoying."

"Nice to hear you're having fun!" Hardison's voice hissed in Nate's ear just at the moment when the sound of another incoming email made Tapia jump a little in his chair, snapping him from watching their quick exchange. Villacorta didn't jump, didn't blink, he just waited. Very, very patiently, with a light smile. "I couldn't do anything with that email, except to kill his laptop completely, so I did something else," Hardison quickly went on. "Wait for it. Btw, I'm copying all Tapia's files as we speak. After that I'll go to the back offices and ransack everything useful. Thirteen minutes 'til the attack."

"Okay, thank you Hardison." Nate nodded at Villacorta to look at the new email, and the Chilean turned away from them. Thank God his eyes weren't on them, because right at that moment Eliot's sunglasses snapped in the half with a cracking sound.

_What the hell_? He looked at him, suddenly realizing that maybe he wasn't as stable as he hoped he was, because it was obvious he just realized that Nate wasn't alone here. How the fuck had he thought he listened to them? With his ear pressed against the wall? The intent to kill was visibly seeping into his eyes, the snake was tensed again, ready to strike a blow. He didn't even notice he had snapped his glasses, and in a moment Nate thought he would just get up and start killing.

"Uh – oh." Hardison's whisper was quiet, the van went silent.

He was too busy with the immediate crisis to think about what Eliot knew. More importantly, too occupied to remember why Eliot wanted to chase them away from all this; to spare them from guilt, from all the death that he had caused during the night, from _his_ death.

"You brought them - you're not – you just-" he stopped for a second, visibly clearing his mind. "Your cost – benefit analysis needs serious reconsidering," he finished slowly, with a voice that was so empty of all the rage that was pouring from his eyes for a second, that it was utterly disturbing. Especially when he saw the slight trembling of his left foot. He had to put a hand on his knee to stop it.

It wasn't a very smart move to shake a man who was already coming apart, and to push him into helpless rage, with so many potential targets around. Before he could react in any way – and everything he needed to tell him that he couldn't say aloud anyway – Villacorta pushed the laptop away.

"What is this?" his voice was murderous again, but after Eliot's eyes, Villacorta's anger felt like a soft summer rain. Soothing.

"If you show me, I'll tell you." Nate got up, hoping that all eyes would follow him, and not look at Eliot, and turned laptop to see what Hardison had done. "Ah, I see… that," he smiled. "Renan Villacorta, age 54, released from SICU this morning, just few minutes ago, after complications from a removed appendix that severely threatened his life," he read aloud so Eliot could catch up, hoping it would remind him where they were, and what the hell they were doing in here. "And it took him… how long after you told Lydia to send the papers? A few minutes? Do you see now how easy is to input all the facts into the hospital data base? Not only that, we put a detailed surgery account there for Eliot, we also did that for SICU and the charts, every hour of his stay there. Do you think we are fucking _amateurs_? Don't waste my time with this childish shit, I operate on a little higher level." He held his gaze, not allowing him to look anywhere else. "I'm not here to chat and exchange moves with you, we've got work to do. The pissing contest time was three days ago, in case you hadn't noticed. Now, Renan Villacorta, if you want this shit to disappear, start talking. Whom do you want to go first, and why?"

Villacorta hesitated, deciding if it would be useful to press this power balance, but the rational part of him took over, as Nate knew it would. "The Mexicans are the most imminent danger. Deal with them first."

"No." Eliot's voice sounded restrained and quiet, but controlled again, and Nate sighed in relief. "Russians first."

"Why the Russians?" Villacorta asked. "They haven't done anything yet."

"That makes them the most dangerous at the moment. Their preparation is deadly, and they'll strike only one blow. The final one." Eliot looked at Nate. "It would be just like that job with the green dragon."

_They hadn't had any job with gree-_ He blinked after a second. There weren't any Russians coming after Villacorta, Eliot was bluffing. They could sit a few days, resting, and then simply call Villacorta and tell him they dealt with that horrible threat successfully, and that he wouldn't hear anything about any Russians or their attacks. Which would buy them more time for other things.

He just smiled, not bothering to nod. "So be it. The Russians will go first."

"You allow your pawns to interfere in your plans, White King? To dictate your moves?" Villacorta's smile was almost a smirk.

Nate glanced at Eliot who lowered his head and started to pinch his sleeve, immediately erasing the sharp edge from his eyes, dulling them. In just one second he went back to being the dumb goon. And seeing that hit him hard. _No. No, you won't, not after all that you have done_. Damn, the sudden burst of rage he felt was dangerous, and he couldn't quite explain it. But he couldn't help it, either, just like he couldn't shut his mouth now, not while Villacorta still had that sneer on his face.

He returned to his seat and tilted his head a little. "At the endgame, Villacorta, when only two Kings remain on the field-"

"I have two rooks," Villacorta smiled, glancing at Bugueno and Tapia.

Nate followed his eyes, and gave a pained smile. "Indeed you have. As I said… when only two Kings remain on the table, the pawn is something that decides the game. One King can't kill the other. And at the end, the pawn, and the King are the same strength." He took an empty cup and poured himself a coffee. "You claimed you know a lot about pawns, that you even understand them, didn't you? You know nothing about them, Renan Villacorta. If a pawn manages to survive the game, if he crosses the entire board alive, and reaches the final line of the enemy, he transforms into the most deadly, and the most versatile piece on the board – the Queen. The Queen is an interesting piece; it can play all the moves, of all the other pieces," he slowly raised his eyes and pinned Villacorta. "My Queens are able to kill the enemy King with more moves than you can imagine."

"Now you see how colorful our briefings are," Eliot murmured, still with a lowered head, and Nate bit his lip; the warning to get it together and knock it off was clear.

"Eleven minutes, Nate," Hardison said quietly. "You've dealt with the papers, you stopped him from killing himself, but you have to hurry with the rest."

As if he wasn't aware of every second that passed.

"By the way, we used this time to come closer. _Please_ don't ask how," Hardison quickly continued. "We are now parked at the back of the building, near the heating plant. Yeah, I know we're too close, but don't try to bitch about it, or I'll cut you off."

That put them into the circle that would be attacked; Nate felt his stomach chilling, but he produced a smile for Villacorta. Yep, definitely time to hurry this up… and first of all, to deal with Eliot. The hitter was watching him, sensing his disturbance.

Nate took a bug from his pocket and hid it in his hand.

"In fact, I didn't come here to chat. I've come to deal with the things he screwed up," he motioned to Eliot with his head, and got up, slowly, not wanting any weapons aiming at them now. Even more slowly, he pulled out one of Hardison geeky scanners that he took with him, showing it to Villacorta's men. "He did miss the FBI. They're not done with you." While he talked, he moved the scanner up one of the columns that held a camera. He remembered that it was the least important one, it showed the one empty chair at the opposite side. He reached, pulled, and threw the bug on the table in front of Villacorta. "My hacker was able to jam the signal until now, but it seems they brought a parabolic and low noise amplifiers, they're boosting the signal, and very soon they'll be able to hear fragments of our conversation." he turned his head to look at Eliot. "And he missed the entire FBI. Maybe, after all, I'll give you his contract."

"_Parabolic and low noise amplifier_? Seriously?" Hardison whispered. "Do you have any idea what a bunch of crap you just said? Let's just hope that no one there has the basic knowledge of…" his voice trailed off into the silence.

Eliot looked up at him, and Nate knew he saw some intent in his words, but not clearly enough to understand completely what, exactly, he should follow and why. Villacorta observed the bug with a frown.

"They are pretty much helpless," the Chilean said carefully, "but if they wired the restaurant, that means they had a warrant for doing it, and a few solid things to base it on. Can you deal with the FBI?"

"It will take time," Nate almost smiled. _A little longer than with the Russians_. He returned to his chair, noticing that Eliot took the silver phone and put it on the table, turning it on. He also noticed how slow that movement was, that it was less than five centimeters from missing the edge of the table.

"After all the praise about your Queens, you seem pretty eager to give one away," Villacorta continued. Yep, damn, he _knew_ it was mistake, and that these words would sound strange, he didn't need Villacorta to remind him of that.

"Not so long ago, he was satisfied with my work." Eliot's words sounded just a little bitter. "He was even joking that he should clone me. Maybe that's why he came with that 'eight pawns' part. Obviously, seven now, very soon."

Nate clenched his teeth at the message; Eliot had just warned him he was going down. And he almost skipped the other important part of it. He took his own phone, took the bug in front of him, and started to move the phone all over the tiny thing, cloning Eliot's phone at the same time. "It's still recording, but the activity isn't any stronger," he explained to Villacorta, trying to ignore Hardison's low keening in his ear, at the same time quickly going through the menus of the cloned phone. There was too much of everything on it, he had no idea what he was supposed to find.

"Send him a picture, he can check exact the specifications in his databases," Eliot suggested, and Nate immediately went into the picture folder. He knew Eliot showed Villacorta one picture with Alejandro and the Mexicans, but there was another one. The Irishmen and Callahan in front of Rojas's Hummer.

"Not necessary." He wasn't here to strengthen this set up, but Eliot couldn't know that. "That part is not important now, we have more urgent issues at hand." He held his eyes on him as he was speaking the last part of the sentence, but it was only a message that there was something else, not what it was. Eliot just returned his half bored gaze to Bugueno, whom he had been watching since Nate arrived. Bugueno was sitting almost invisible, concerned, trying not to bring attention to himself.

"Nine minutes, Nate." Hardison's warning was still relaxed, as if the hacker didn't want to disturb him in any way. "And they have pretty nasty guns in there." Or maybe not.

He wasn't able to tell Eliot about the incoming attack, he had no means to explain to him why he had to go, as soon as possible, and more importantly, why _he_ had to stay. He couldn't even give him a damn earbud, because Eliot showed Villacorta he had one already, and that he had been in contact with them all the time.

But the solutions to all problems were, once when they were found, always so damn simple.

"And now, to answer your question, why I'm so eager to give him away," he said to Villacorta who was lost in thinking, but still listening to their exchange, staring at the bug, "he isn't reliable enough. Some things can't be hidden, and I don't know how you didn't notice this… Eliot, will you show us your hands, please?"

This was a dangerous moment, and Eliot's hesitation was expected. He asked him to show something he had been trying to hide all this time… but even in this distressed condition, Nate knew he would trust him.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Hardison's whisper sounded alarmed.

"I hope you know what you are doing." Eliot didn't sound alarmed, but probably because he had passed that phase long ago, there weren't many things that could alarm him now. He slowly lifted his arms, showing that his hands were shaking so badly that he had to rest them on the table.

"If you want him to work for you, after his contract ends, you have to know that he has one… problem," Nate calmly explained. "I don't know what he was using last night, and I don't want to know, but it was obviously one nasty mixture. He's barely able to sit, and if I recall correctly, judging by the last time, he'll soon crash completely." He really hoped that Villacorta wouldn't ask himself why he was so eager to reveal the weaknesses of his crew to the enemy. He hoped even more, that Sophie would keep her annoyance in this form of quiet, sharp sighs.

"Okay, forget I said anything," Hardison let out a long breath.

"If this is your idea of a letter of recommendation…" Eliot's voice went into that low, disturbing tone. He leaned back in the chair, grabbing his slushie with an almost insulted frown on his face.

"I told you so," Tapia murmured quietly, and Eliot darted a nasty glance at him. "What? I told you you should ask for help, didn't I? Now you see… you'll lose your job _and_ it will kill you. Told you so, but no, smart ass, you don't listen." He leaned to Villacorta and whispered, "I saw a _needle_."

"It's… a scary thought, Matio," the head of the largest drug cartel said. For a moment, Villacorta sighed, just blinking, and Nate knew exactly how he felt at this moment. Eliot glanced at the boy and _completely_ ruined his menacing expression with a brief smile. Nate rubbed his forehead when it finally dawned on him; _Nate, he followed me home, can we keep him_? Not even he could predict _all_ the complications. Besides, he could feel Eliot's concentration beginning to waver, his effort to focus again every time he slipped was almost visible. Great. He was oscillating with inconsistencies, up and down, unable to keep a story straight, and he had a half conscious co–player who had just grinned at the enemy's lieutenant, beginning to look like he was having the time of his life. They were _so_ going to die here.

"You were _drivin_g drugged, almost crashed us two times."

"I lost control because you started _singing_!"

"I have a nice voice."

"Don't make me laugh, I might spit this slushie all over your laptop. You _puked_ in my car!"

"The trunk. It's not the same. The laptop, on the other hand-"

Villacorta raised his hand, stopping the quick exchange. "I want results," he shrugged. "What my people do to get me those results, it doesn't concern me. I don't care what drug they use."

Nate almost forgot to respond on that, realizing what Eliot had said to him in that poking at Tapia, and what the _real_ purpose of that thick, dark red juice that he held in his hands was. He allowed himself one long, controlled inhale, to calm down the sudden rush of nausea. He hoped no one from the van put two and two together.

"Oh, don't worry, you _will_ get results," Nate sighed again. "He is especially good at collecting results. But at some point, you'll find yourself in a position when all those results show up on your doorstep, and you're the one who will have to deal with them." He sensed Eliot's attention sharpening again; he figured out something that he had done during the night was causing problems, but that was it, nothing more for now. Nate let those words to start working in his head.

"Excuse me, but I'd like to see _you_ to deal with all that multinational shit from last night," Eliot sighed tiredly and took a sip from the glass; Nate couldn't say if he decided to close his eyes for a second, or he had to. "They were all hard to spy on, everyone in a different way. The Irish are crazy, the Armenians are wild, the Mexicans-"

"The Mexicans should have been fun," Nate stopped him. _Yep, the Mexicans are the problem_. "In fact, they _are_ still fun. You are not needed here anymore, so you can go and tie up all the loose ends that you've missed." Nate smiled at Villacorta. "We can continue with the details of the first steps that have to be taken."

"Not for long," Villacorta glanced at his watch. "I'll soon leave; I have more things to do. Until then, _no one_ leaves. I'll wait for your results first, then I'll start to trust you."

"Eight minutes, Nate. This is not good, man."

Yeah, Hardison, this wasn't good. He had to get Eliot out before the attack – they had to get him help, if it wasn't too late already, and with this order to stay, they were practically stuck here to die. The drugging could explain if he had problems with getting up, or if he was visibly swaying, but if he collapsed completely, everything would be finished. The adrenaline rush caused by his coming kept him functioning a little longer, but every minute was dangerous.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Eliot rubbing his eyes, again, trying to clear his vision, and when he slowly lowered his hand, he noticed his fingernails were bluish. Not nearly enough oxygen. All the symptoms of shock were there, and the fear gnawed at him with renewed strength. If he got up on his feet in this condition he would go down immediately… and the most frightening thing was that Eliot wasn't aware of that.

"You don't have to trust us," he answered Villacorta. "I don't trust you, either. Our deal is just a mutual need. He wasn't authorized to tell you _why_ we were cleaning up Boston. I do hope you don't think it's because of our strive for justice."

Villacorta waited for the rest. As he had done the entire time. _Waited_.

He watched Villacorta, realizing how little the man had spoke from the beginning; even now, when they in fact had to talk about the crucial things for him, his silent attention never changed into anything more than carefully controlled short statements, and questions. Villacorta _was_ The Spider, accustomed to a slow but steady intake of information, deep in the center of his web. Everything was _coming_ to him.

Eliot was right; to not know something was the worst thing for him, because he could control everything only by knowing everything. Last night must have been a burning pain in his side. He just watched, and collected, trying to sort all of it out… and he was doing precisely that with the two of them right now. He was studying them, trying to see who they were, and if they would be useful enough. And he hadn't gotten enough, that was the only reason behind his order for both of them to stay. He didn't try to stop any of their lines, not even when it was obvious they were talking to each other… and he wanted, _needed_, more of that.

"We've dealt with them all, to see who is the strongest," Nate smiled. "Boston is our town, our hunting ground, full of opportunities… the many small gangs who are taking small bites are a nuisance that we had to fight against. We want the one, the only one, controlling everything. Whom we can fight _with_."

"Well, this is ridiculous!" Sophie's annoyed, almost pissed off voice sounded in his ear, stopping him at the beginning of yet another dramatic statement, and he barely managed to arrange his face into a thoughtful expression, instead of a bland stare. "My damn IQ has been lowered, obviously! Morons! He turned his phone on when you cloned it!"

At the same moment Eliot's silver phone rang, giving him an excuse to wait and not continue to talk.

"The only thing that's important here, those- oh. Good morning, darling," Sophie's voice went low and gentle when Eliot answered the phone, and Nate watched him. He flinched visibly. He could only guess what was going on inside his head when he heard her, for the first time after that dreadful conversation last night; his face was unreadable. "Nate was trying to tell you that you have eight minutes before forty Mexicans attack and kill you all, they are surrounding the building. You have to find some way to retreat; we don't know how they'll attack. In any case, you are a liability - they mustn't see you with Villacorta, or they'll know it was a set up for them, and second, you're too slow for a retreat when the attack begins." Thank God; she went with logic and necessity, with an almost hitter-ish assessment of the situation, not mentioning his condition and that he had to go because they were waiting to grab him and take him to Betsy.

"No, it's-" he tried to say something, and Nate saw that he remembered where he was at the last second, and glanced once at Villacorta with an apology in his eyes. "Yeah, I _know_ I was out the entire night, but I was worki-"

"Hardison will send you blueprints with the escape routes. Behind the restaurant, the kitchen and all the other rooms are back offices in two large wings, and corridors that connect them with a back stairs. The stairs go down to the basement. The basement corridor on the left, the longest one that goes all the way to the heating plant, has an exit in the park; it would take you behind the Mexicans when they attack."

"No, I definitely _couldn't_ call-"

"You have to go, Eliot," her voice went even softer. "If Villacorta presses, for any reason, and asks to check your bandages, you'll both be dead, and he can do it just for the sake of it. Without that possibility, Nate can continue with this without any danger, Villacorta took the bait completely. Your presence is endangering, and you know it."

"Yeah, right." He went to rub his eyes, but remembered he was holding the glass in the other hand, barely at the last moment, "I'll think about it next time."

"Hurry up," her voice faltered for a moment, but she gathered herself. "By the way, nice touch with that head. It really did add a dramatic moment."

For a moment Nate thought Eliot would drop the phone. "What?! I didn't- I wouldn't-"

"But _of course_ you didn't," she added gently, and ended the call.

Eliot lowered the phone, staring at him, and Nate cursed silently. Villacorta was forgotten, he was slipping. "She wouldn't think – she just –"

"Not the time, Eliot," he warned him, voice low.

He blinked and managed to focus, and his eyes quickly went over the terrace. Mexicans. Forty Mexicans. Twenty Chileans. Eight minutes. Nate could almost see that thoughts starting to work in his head, while at the same time he was trying to return to this situation with Villacorta, and it was too much, he couldn't do the third thing as well, to control himself. He took a deeper breath, forgetting that it was dangerous, and it almost knocked him out. It was like as if someone shut off the light behind his eyes, and Nate knew he couldn't see him anymore.

He quickly turned to Villacorta. "Next time I'll bring a pissed off woman to negotiations," he smirked. "It's clear they don't listen to the other side, don't let themselves be interrupted, and certainly don't take any prisoners."

"Keep talking, he needs one more minute," Hardison's voice was a whisper. "ETA seven minutes."

"Women," Tapia said before he could continue, raising one finger in the air. "Are dangerous creatures. I'm married, I _know_." Villacorta turned to look at him, and for a moment Nate asked himself if this was a completely accidental jumping in. "Do you want me to erase those emails, or keep them? I don't like to have nasty health stuff on my computer. Not even your honorable bowels, Renan."

"These are not my papers," Villacorta explained very patiently. "Destroy them."

"Fucking. Hilarious." Eliot's voice was a whisper. He was grinning, for God's sake, and Nate wasn't complete sure if the darkness before him had cleared or not, because his eyes were glazed. "I knew it from the beginning. Hilarious, yep. Gettin' even better and better." Okay, _this_ was the edge of a complete breakdown.

"What is hilarious?" Villacorta asked with a smile, and Nate froze. Eliot's head followed the source of the sound, he didn't _see_ the Chilean. And he couldn't erase his grin. "The fact that I'm sitting here, listening to two middle aged control freaks with serious overconfidence issues… the fact I'm obviously between jobs… that my girlfriend just dumped me because of the two of you, and that I'm thinking the only normal person here is Bugueno… which is a really, _really_ terrifying thought," he blinked and returned the phone and the slushie to the table, carefully trying not to drop anything in the process. "Besides that, everything is fine… thank you for asking. You may continue with your…whatever."

"Why Bugueno now?" Hardison quickly whispered. "What does he want with him?"

"Sorry for this distraction," Nate shrugged to Villacorta. "Back to business, we don't have much time. Do you have anything useful to say, that we can use in our first steps?"

"Distraction, yep, I get it…" Hardison went on, the typing could clearly be heard. "He needs something to occupy Villacorta, and drive his attention away from him. I think I know what he wants - that recording of Bugueno's speech that he asked for before. Do you want me to put it on the restaurant speakers?"

"Because if you have," Nate continued his words to Villacorta, "we'll be very glad to hear it. Just keep it low, you never know who else might be listening."

"Okay, just a few seconds," Hardison murmured.

Villacorta thought about his question for a moment, and Nate continued. "For example, you can tell us who your next candidate for the prostitution business is. We'll need the name for the contact."

Bugueno raised his head, alarmed, but it was too late. His own voice, a hurried whisper, spread over the terrace. "You told me you blew him up! Him, Adrian, not just his damn car!" An unknown voice answered with explanations, and the entire conversation had subtle background music… Nate rolled his eyes when he recognized Sting's voice saying "Every move you make, every step you take, I'll be watching you."

Yes, Villacorta was definitely distracted, he listened to every word with that pleasant smile, while his men were coming closer and closer, reading his thoughts again.

"In the back offices. I'll deal with it later." Bugueno was dragged from the terrace without much noise.

"Six minutes. Nate, he doesn't look like he bought a little time for recovering." Nate didn't need Hardison's warning, he could see it for himself. Eliot was blindly staring at his hand, as if he just now noticed it was shaking.

His eyes were still glazed and lost when he raised his head to look at him. "Something's wrong," he whispered.

That sound made Villacorta to turn sharply to him. "What's wrong?"

Eliot shook his head, lowering his hand. "I'm not sure yet… I have a few suspicions that I'll have to check… Nate," he stopped for a second, and Nate saw the moment he realized he couldn't continue coherently. "Tell him about Don Lazzara… and Bugueno."

That drove Villacorta's eyes away from him, thank God, from his noticeable pauses in speech, and the voice that fluttered on the last words.

"Don Lazzara is preparing an attack on Tapia's casino."

"Which one? And when?"

How the hell he could know that? Eliot's message stated just the fact. "No, you won't get any more information than necessary. Suspicions, on the other hand, we can give you freely, without charge," he grinned. "We haven't discussed our price yet. While you're thinking about that, also think about coincidence… that one of your lieutenants, and the Italian mob, have the same target. The first, killing of the Head of Gambling, and second, right after that, taking over his place. The conclusions you might draw for yourself." He noticed Eliot's barely visible nod; there wasn't anything else.

"So why don't you deal with the Italians the first, and then move onto the Russians?" Villacorta put his elbows on the table, keeping his gaze on him for now. "They are not ones who should be taken lightly. I've noticed them circling around my territory, waiting for the chance to do something, but for now, they weren't more than boring mosquitoes-"

Nate froze when he heard a choked sound from Eliot, and quickly turned around. He was bent forward, his head lowered, and he was holding the edge of the table to keep himself from falling. Eliot was fucking _laughing_; trying to stop, but in vain. Villacorta stared at him in disbelief. "S… sorry," Eliot managed to say after a moment. "I… I even made… a rule about those damn mosqit-" and then he lost it again, there was no way he could stop that laugh and calm himself down. He pushed himself back from the table, burying his face in the crook of his elbow.

Nate had no idea what the trigger for this was, but the results were deadly. He had snapped completely, lost it, and he was coming apart at the seams… and his laugh was becoming coughing.

"Do something," Sophie's scared whisper sounded in his ear.

"This is way too much, even from you," Nate lowered his voice into a deadly hiss, knowing that Eliot wouldn't even hear him, much less react. He _couldn'_t stop laughing now. Nate needed precisely that, that disobedience, to push his angry reaction. But he couldn't wait too long; he gave him one more second, then looked at Villacorta. "I'll handle this," he snarled, one pissed off boss to another, and Villacorta nodded reflexively.

"Enough!" Nate yelled, rising to his feet, and when no reaction came, he grabbed Eliot's glass and hurled the slushie into his face. He couldn't see if he was coughing up blood, but he couldn't risk taking that chance. Even the frozen juice couldn't stop that laugh, and Eliot bent over again, his shoulders shaking without any control.

"I suggest you start taking notes, if you still want him," Nate turned to Villacorta. "Bathroom?"

"Behind the restaurant on the left," Tapia jumped in. "This is nothing; you should see my horrors during last night. He was talking to the dead people."

Thank god that this didn't look like a man passing out from a gunshot wound, it was exactly what would one expect from someone drugged. Nate couldn't hesitate now with thinking about how to get him on his feet without hurting him further, he simply grabbed his jacket and pulled him up. For one moment his entire weight was on his hand, but then Eliot managed to sway and steady himself on his feet. Still laughing.

"In my _hair_?" he stuttered, staggering. "You throw this, this… thing in my _hair_? Seriously?"

"Walk, you idiot!" Nate glanced at Villacorta over his shoulder, "be back in a minute." He pulled Eliot along, hoping that Villacorta wouldn't pay too much attention to his other hand that was gripping his upper arm, keeping him upright.

"Fuckin'… hilarious," Eliot murmured between two waves of coughing, but they were almost out of the most dangerous zone, they'd passed all the goons. Nate turned left, finding the bathrooms, pushed him inside and closed the door behind them.

Jesus, finally.

"Can you st-" his words were cut off when Eliot regained his balance and turned around, because something yanked his arm, pulling it to his back, and in the next second his face was slammed into the cold wall. One forearm was pressing against the back of his neck, able to snap it in a second. Fuck. He remained completely still, waiting for Eliot to remember who he was, and where they were.

Yet, the low whisper behind his ear didn't sound lost at all. "I can completely understand everything you did during these days… No problems with that," his whisper was vicious. "I would even understand _your_ coming in here, into this… this fuckup… if you thought there was still a chance to get me out. But not _after_ I've clearly told you it's useless. And you brought _them _along?! Have you lost your fucking mind?!" He felt something in his shoulder started to dislocate.

Damn. Just the slightest pressure and his neck would snap. He carefully inhaled and said, solemnly, "I'm truly, _truly_ sorry about your hair. If I knew that would upset you this much, I would _never_ do that."

Again that choked sound; the hand on his neck released the pressure, and his hand was free. He turned around immediately, knowing what he would see, and he managed to catch him when his knees buckled and to stop his fall.

"Very wise… to spend the last bits of your strength on _this_?" he hissed, easing him back to rest with his back against the wall. Yep, it was definitely blood that he was coughing up; that little scene wasn't arranged, he just kept some control through it, not snapping completely.

Eliot shook his head, still on the verge of another laugh. "Not the last," he managed to whisper.

Nate moved to grab some paper towels, giving him time to calm down, to avoid one more laughing attack.

"Five minutes." Hardison's whisper was almost silent; they were listening.

Nate gave him the towels to wipe his face and whips of hair, analyzing his every move; without imminent danger and Villacorta's stare, he seemed barely conscious, slow and uncoordinated, and his eyes were glazed again. He should just drag him away from here, but he couldn't, and the rage began boiling inside him again.

He kneeled next to him so their eyes were at the same level, but he kept his distance, not touching him, not helping him, waiting for him to finish wiping off his face, and to focus again.

"You have less than five minutes to reach the basement and corridor. Can you walk?" he changed his voice into the official, briefing voice. Fear and anger would disturb him, he had to keep it away from the surface.

"Something's wrong," Eliot whispered, closing his eyes.

"Nope, _everything_ is wrong. Open your eyes and listen. I'm going back to Villacorta." Yes, _that_ opened his eyes. He continued slowly. "If I don't show myself back there in two minutes, he'll send his men to check on us. I'll simply go back and tell him you need a few more minutes to get it together. He is preparing to leave, and I don't want him to leave before the Mexicans arrive… if they kill him, we are done with this. Completely. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"You _do_ sound a little incoherent... but with practice, you'll be fine."

"I'm just trying to synchronize with your higher brain functions going on and off without warning," he grinned. "And no, don't even bother to ask – I'm not staying there, waiting to be shot with Villacorta when the Mexicans rush in shooting. I'll follow you two minutes before the attack. The back stairs will be free." He pulled an earbud from his pocket and put it in his hand. "Your phone is still on that table. _Use _this."

Eliot stayed silent for a second, lowering his head to look at the earbud. "You still don't understand…" he begun, but his voice faltered. "Nothing's changed, Nate."

"Exactly," he said quietly. "Nothing's changed. Now, get up and… Eliot, open your eyes!"

It took almost five seconds before he was able to keep them open… his concentration was indeed dosing in and out, and intervals were shorter every time. Fuck, he didn't _want _to leave him here. But if he stayed here with him, or tried to get him to the back stairs, they would be stopped before they got out of the corridor, and that would end everything.

"I'm just… trying to think. Something doesn't make any sense… that Bugueno's recording… something's wrong."

"Try to walk instead. Thinking can wait." He pulled him up, helping him stand; it seemed that even that didn't cause any pain, he was too deep into shock to feel anything. He let go, staying within reach, but Eliot remained on his feet, he didn't even sway.

"Go back," he whispered. "And hurry. I'll be fine, I can walk." He smiled but his eyes were occupied with something else, as if he wasn't even there.

That sounded utterly convincing, indeed. He swallowed a curse.

"I'll _go_, Nate. I just need one minute to get it together. Trust me."

Well, he wouldn't get any better than that. He nodded. And left, pissed off and terrified, to make sure none of those bastards who had done this to Eliot left this building alive.

.

.

o.0.o

.

.

The combination of being pissed off and terrified would be a very nasty mixture to cast upon anybody's nerves, but Nate was so used feeling those two together, that he barely noticed it anymore. Again, like when he came here for the first time, he slowed his steps and his breathing, to calmly enter the terrace.

Nothing had changed during the short time of his absence. The Chileans were spread all over the terrace, now in small groups, much more relaxed than when the conversation was still heated, some of them were quietly talking. Tapia was showing something to Villacorta, who studied his laptop with extreme patience on his face. He raised his eyes, noticing him, but he returned them to laptop again.

And Nate stopped at the door, before his first step onto the terrace. Everything slowed down, as his eyes went from group to group, from one face to another.

Twenty people. He stared at them, knowing that in only a few minutes this terrace would be a bloodbath, all those men would be lying around in pools of blood… and he was about to go in there, to make _sure_ that it happened.

That wasn't… what they were doing._ What the fuck he was thinking_?

They didn't kill their marks or let them be killed; they took them down, even when it was personal. They put the bad guys into the hands of the law. They weren't the fucking judges or executioners.

And he had already done that. Villacorta, if he survived this, would very soon go to jail for a long time, and he wouldn't continue with his vengeance against them because Eliot removed that threat from them. They were clean. And safe.

He came here to get Eliot out, and he even did that. It was time to stop, to finish this madness, before this disaster turned them all into the people they were fighting against.

He looked into the abyss. The abyss didn't just look back. The damn thing winked and grinned.

He inhaled one long breath, and let it out slowly, rearranging his mind. Damn, he was so close to that edge.

"Hardison," he said quietly, "we are on a reset."

.

.

o.0.o

.

.

For exactly nine seconds Eliot had no idea where he was, yet at the same time he was completely aware of the passing of time, because the seconds were slowly thumping in his head. When the disorientation passed, he found himself in the bathroom again. Jesus. Nate has just left, and it seemed that the sound of the door closing still stayed in the room. Or in his head. Whatever.

He _could_ walk. Reaching the back stairs wouldn't be a problem. He just had to remember what was wrong, and why he had to think about it first.

He slowly went to the sinks with giant, golden mirrors, still holding the earbud in his hand; he should drown the damn thing – or he should have drown Nate first, before he gave it to him… but instead, he just put it on the edge of the sink. He washed his face and a few whips of hair – damn things would start to curl in a minute, he just _knew_ it – and then watched the pink water that was going away.

_He wanted to kill him exactly four times since he came onto the terrace_. Two times because he vaguely remembered some reason for it… and two times just because it would be so hilarious to snap his neck. He stared at the mirror, not recognizing the creature that stared back.

_Something was wrong_.

So what? Everything was wrong.

_Nothing changed_. Yep, when Nate said that, that was the fifth time that he almost killed him; the fucking idiot was delusional. It takes one to recognize one. More precisely, he was in denial.

He couldn't stand looking at his eyes anymore, he lowered his head to look at his hands… and that was even worse. _Everything he touched died_. Nothing changed, right. He could now just happily go and rejoin the team, because nothing-fucking-changed, except one small detail… he could _kill_ Nate five times. He _wanted_ to kill him. He could go with them again, sure… and wait for the first chance to snap and kill one of them? No, even better… to kill one of them _without_ snapping, just like that, because he could, and in that moment he thought it would be interesting. Yep, that was more close to the truth.

He couldn't bring _this_ to them… he raised his head and smiled at himself, at this creature he had so carefully created to fulfill this task. But there was no one who could have warned him that there was no going back. And even if there was, he would still do the same thing. All over again.

The mirror tilted and disappeared, and he quickly held the edge of the sink to keep himself upright, waiting for the darkness to disperse. Just then he remembered one little detail; he didn't need to worry about bringing monsters to anybody. He was dying. And that thought, when he finally remembered it, brought only relief.

He had a little more time to see if he could use the monster to make sure everything went fine… and to find out what the hell was wrong.

Bugueno's recording. He closed his eyes and went through everything that was said about it on the terrace, trying to fill in the blank spots… he had told Villacorta about the car bombs, and that he should check the recording. Villacorta sent one man to bring that recording… and man never came back. The control room couldn't be that far away, Villacorta would keep everything connected to his business on this floor, and… fuck. _The control room_. That _controlled_ everything there. _Fuck_.

He took the earbud, hesitating only one second before he put it in his ear.

"… and if you don't answer I swear, I'll find you, and kill you myself, and I won't, mark my words, I _won't_ have any mercy on you, you damn fucking sonofa-"

"Hardison," he closed his eyes when the hacker's scared voice hit him.

"-abitch!" his voice went into the high pitch of relief. "Where the hell are you?! You should have been by the stairs already, what the hell are you thinking, you have four fucking minutes to-"

"Hardison, shut up," he whispered, trying to concentrate. The damn mirror was dancing again and he gripped the edge, closing his eyes to stop everything from spinning.

"When you get out, we gonna have us a serious conversation about the doing what you've been told to do as in fucking _now_! Get out of that room, I want to see you on the cameras. Move already-"

"Alec!" He didn't want it to sound like a desperate cry, he really didn't… but he had to stop him. "Please…" he whispered. "Listen to me."

Silence, finally. "Where's the control room for surveillance?" he went on.

"Second floor, the right wing, behind the restaurant." Hardison's voice was now a whisper as well. "Why?"

"In those control rooms, there are usually one or two guys who monitor the surveillance, right?"

"Make it two, for so many cameras. But don't worry, they are just regulars, they wouldn't notice I was in their system."

"Hardison… how do two guys, with a system that was apparently working as usual… miss noticing forty Mexicans surrounding the building?"

_That_ silence was frozen.

"The guy that Villacorta sent to bring the recording didn't return. He is dead, just like those two. The Mexicans are already here, Hardison. They were here even before I came to the terrace, or you would have noticed them approaching… they sent a group to kill those men before Villacorta and his men came… to prepare everything for the big attack." Damn, he couldn't talk anymore, he had to stop.

But he didn't have to continue. "And that means," Hardison continued slowly. "That the fucking Mexican cartel have the entire conversation with Villacorta. And they know everything about us. And what you did."

"Somethin' like that."

"Hell. I'm going to start deleting everything dangerous. You go-"

"To do pretty much the same," he whispered and took out the earbud, cutting Hardison's alarmed voice in the half. He went to the toilet and flushed the damn thing.

The right wing behind the restaurant. The control room. He had to find the most efficient way to deal with it.

.

.

o.0.o

.

.

"Eliot had asked you if you wanted to live." Nate had no time to waste now. "If you want to live, you'll listen, and do exactly what I tell you, and when I tell you. Do you have any exits from this terrace besides the main stairs and the back stairs?"

Villacorta took just one second to assess the situation, and his face and eyes. "The fire escape from the terrace that goes directly into the park. What's going on?"

"The building is surrounded, the Mexicans will attack in four minutes. More than forty of them. All of you can just disappear, one after another, and the Mexicans will only find an empty terrace. No shooting, no killing, and no explanation. No one has to die here today."

"Which would leave me unprotected in the park, with forty Mexicans at my back in pursuit? No way." Villacorta hoisted himself up, thinking. Nate noticed he didn't question his words. That was an interesting fact to remember. "Matio, get ready. Mark, take three of your best, they'll go with us. The rest of you, keep the Mexicans busy here, and in the entire building."

"It's a waste of-" Nate stopped himself, and Villacorta turned around to see what happened. He gave him a sign to stay silent, listening to Hardison's and Eliot's conversation. _Fuck, no_.

"Hardison," he said when it was clear that Eliot wouldn't answer anymore. "Create a separated channel for one earbud." he said giving Villacorta another comm from his pocket.

"What?!"

"You heard me. Now, can you shut down all the cameras on the second floor? Make it look like a malfunction, as if the entire floor went without power to them, or something; they can not see him leaving via the fire exit, or they'll simply direct all the others after him."

"All of them? I won't be able to see Eliot. He just entered the hall, I'm not sure if he is going to the back stairs, or-"

"If you see him, they can see him too. I'll find him. Just do it, now!"

"Okay, here we go… blind."

Nate turned to Villacorta again. "The Mexicans were already in the surveillance room. Go now, they can't see you. Hardison… You have the cameras in the park, and you can guide him through it to avoid the Mexicans."

"No way, man. I'm erasing all this recorded shit from the terrace, and at the same time trying to connect the second floor so we can see everything, and they can't – I'll give it to Parker to navigate, she analyzed every path."

Dear God. Villacorta's destiny in Parker's hands. He swallowed, trying not to show his worries to Villacorta.

"Parker…" he said softly. "Eliot likes this Tapia, you know? He wouldn't like to see him-"

"_Likes _him? More than us?!"

Fuck. Wrong move. He bit his lip, thinking as fast as he could.

"I'm joking, silly. You know that, right?" She sounded calm.

"Okay, you got one channel for him," Hardison spared him from answering.

Villacorta blinked when voices spoke in his ear for a second, but Hardison cut them off, leaving just Parker's. The last thing Nate heard before Hardison switched her off from them was her finely modulated voice: "Good morning, Mr. Rrrenaaan Villacorta. Welcome to Leverage Airlines. Please, fasten your seat belt. Here are some warnings…"

He allowed himself one second of looking at Villacorta's perplexed stare, then waved to attract his attention.

"Three minutes, Nate. Whatever you're doing, now it's time to start thinking about your exit line."

"Disappear for ten days," Nate said to Villacorta. "Without a trace, without a clue, tell nobody what's going on. Don't contact anybody. That would totally distress everyone, they will know you are preparing something."

Villacorta smiled. Fucking bastard.

He stopped his fist, and instead of smashing it into his face, grabbed his collar, pulling him closer.

"I'll collect, Villacorta." He said only that, quietly. "We're not done."

Villacorta thought for a second. His nod was only an acknowledgment that his words were heard, nothing more, but Nate knew that all the messages were delivered.

He left just after that, followed by Tapia and his escort.

Nate sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. What a fucking stupid mistake! Total distress about the situation couldn't be an excuse for them, they failed to see the most obvious move.

But then he sharply opened his eyes again, realizing it wasn't _just_ that. They'd failed to see much, much more… In that control room weren't just a few guys that killed the surveillance so nobody could see the others attacking. No, there were more of them.

In three minutes, the first shots would be heard from the lobby, when the attack started. The group in the control room would wait one more minute, or two, for Villacorta to send all of his men down, to stop the attackers from coming up to him. He would be unprotected for their attack, killed in a second, and the Chileans would be caught in the middle, among two groups from above, and below.

"Hey!" he yelled, stopping the rest of the Chileans from arranging into groups of two and three. "You have at least ten Mexicans here on the second floor, in the control room." Without hesitation, they regrouped themselves into larger groups, and left in different directions. They certainly looked to be military trained enough not to shoot Eliot if they ran into him in the corridors. Only one group entered the two wings behind the restaurant.

It was time to find the hitter and finally hit those backstairs. He took Eliot's silver phone from the table, put it in a pocket and turned to leave… But he stopped again, and everything on the terrace moved in slow motion once again, as he watched every detail on it. _Something was missing_.

Then he cursed, and ran as fast as he could.

.

.

o.0.o

.

.

His most efficient way to deal with the Mexicans in the control room silently slid up behind him, motioning to him to back off and stay out of their way, so Eliot could pretty accurately assume that the threat would be dealt with in the next couple of minutes. He was going back to the terrace to gather the Chileans and direct them there; he might be insane, but he still wasn't stupid enough to go there and deal with the Mexicans himself. Though, if he had a gun, it would change the odds.

The group that passed him was small, but he had studied every single one of them while he talked with Villacorta, and he knew how trained and armed they were; the Mexicans didn't have a chance, especially now that Hardison shut all the cameras off and nothing could warn them about their approach. _Wait_. How the hell did he know that the hacker shut them off, when he said nothing about… he checked the small eye at the end of the corridor; yep, the tiny light at the bottom was not blinking. Great, either he had lost that entire part of the conversation, or he was making things up.

He slowly turned around, not trying to follow the Chileans to their target; it would be useless, in this condition it would take him four damn minutes just to get to the end of the right wing. Even this corridor seemed too long. He leaned on the wall with his back, closing his eyes. His legs were too unstable to hold him. If he sat down he would never get up, and he had to go, as soon as possible. He had to move away from here before Nate came and tried to stop him, or start him, or whatever brilliant solution was on his mind. The cameras were blind, he should use that, go to the back stairs and enter the first floor; not that damn basement with the exit, no way. First floor. And disappearing. He could still do it, he was good at disappearing... and hiding bodies. Even the walking ones.

But he stayed, nevertheless, listening to the silence, trying to guess what was happening on the terrace, telling himself that nothing could go wrong now, that Nate wouldn't let it happen. It could only get finished and completely wrapped up, that was all, and he was doing just that right now, and that was the reason that it was taking so long.

He was just staring blindly at the other wall, and he barely had the strength to turn his head when he heard someone entering the corridor at the end.

The plate had left a long, already purple gash across Cuchillo's face; the poor man must have been pissed. _Yep, he definitely looked pissed_. He almost laughed when he remembered that he was the one who shot him at the first place, and that he was so completely drained that he could feel only compassion for him.

Yes, he could kill him – with a lot of effort and pain – kill the man who almost killed him, but… why? He just looked at him as he was approaching, cautiously. They'd taken his gun, but missed the knife. _A little sloppy, under their standards_. He was saying something, but he didn't hear a word. He just… couldn't do it anymore. Horrible, utter exhaustion erased his mind completely, and he just stared at him, not giving a damn fuck about what would happen, whether he killed him or not. He just didn't care anymore, he couldn't.

He had done what he wanted, needed to do, and all he wanted was just to lie down and die. He couldn't stand fighting anymore. God, he couldn't stand _standing_ anymore.

It would be so easy just let Cuchillo kill him and finish all this crap. The team was safe, and Nate would take care of the rest. He wanted to stop all this, just to end this exhaustion, agony, thinking, being afraid… to lie down and stop it all. He simply couldn't get up, gather himself for the hundredth time, and continue. Those four days crushed down on him finally, and crushed hard.

But then Nate showed up behind Cuchillo's back and the Chilean turned around to meet the new enemy, with his knife ready to strike a blow.

He had no memory of stepping away from that wall, moving forward or doing anything, though he heard his own grunting, breathless cry as pain clawed at him, almost surprising him with its return; he just found himself a moment, or an eternity, later, looking at Cuchillo who was now lying on the floor, his knife in his hands now. He had to blink to bridge that gap, and it didn't work, there was only complete emptiness.

Yep, that was what he was. _He is. He kills_. He stared at his hands and the blade he was holding. _Everything he touched died_.

And anything he had done to stop that, all those years he tried to change it, everything had been in vain. He was a fool when he thought he was anything else. Just a mindless killing machine.

_Run_. He should leave. _Run away_. Now. _Run_.

Nate was still standing between him and the end of the corridor.

"Move," he breathed, not daring to move him by himself, not trusting his own hands, but the man just looked at him, with his head slightly tilted. _Fuck you and your thinking Nate, move_! He needed all of his meager strength to merely remain upright, and when Nate took a step forward - _for Gods' sake, what was he thinking?!_ _He just killed a man without knowing he was doing it_- he had to back away.

"Change of plans. We have one minute before the shooting starts, no time for the back stairs. Hardison said to stay low on this floor, to find some place to hide and wait 'til he managed to free a passage for us."

_What?_ Plans-shooting-backstairs-passage, words made no sense; he couldn't connect them into anything understandable. _He couldn't stay here_, he had to go… somewhere else. The only way to stop all this was to run away, and Nate was still standing between him and the exit unaware of what he was doing, that stupid… he blinked the sweat from his eyes and took one more step back.

"Nate, move," he tried to snarl, but it came out as a faint whisper, more a plea than a demand, and that pissed him off completely. He shook his head trying to focus on the issue at hand: walking past Nate without losing control and forgetting where he was; he could see Nate speaking, but his words were lost in the white noise that was growing around him. He had to hurry, this wasn't good; if he died here, it would tell Villacorta that he _did_ have bullet in his lungs, and that would be enough to destroy everything. _Or not? _He couldn't remember what the last thing they'd settled was. Whatever… pull out just one card from the house of cards, and everything would crumple. _Run_. He clung to that thought, and forced himself to take one step forward, desperately searching for a calm place in his mind that could guide him and take him out without killing Nate on his way. But it wasn't there anymore, he couldn't reach it. _Please, move away, just shut up and fucking move!_

The white floor hit his knees and he stared at it for a second, wondering how the fuck it came up and slammed into him, and why it was slowly getting even closer to his face, when hands clad in black got in the way and stopped the floor from rising.

Nate was yelling at the floor to stay awake – _he was too close, damn, why did nobody _ever_ listen to him?_ - and that confused him even more; he looked at the floor to see if it would obey Nate's orders, but floor didn't seem to be aware of the clear importance of his words.

Yep, he knew that from the beginning – _but nobody listened to him, what a surprise _- communication problems were at the core of this fuck up. Nate didn't listen to him, the floor didn't listen to Nate, nobody was listening to anybody, and this was how it all ended – in yelling. He stared at the floor, half expecting it to start yelling as well, and he suddenly figured out that the only person that didn't end up yelling at him was Villacorta. He had managed to piss off, one way or another, everybody that he had encountered those past four days, except the one person that should be upset with his doings… and that was comical.

He tried, one more time, to at least look at the exit to remember where he had to go, when he got rid of that black thing that was holding him, but in one frighteningly clear moment, he realized that no door could help him with the escape he needed. He was stuck.

And he couldn't do anything, couldn't free himself, he just watched his own legs moving as he was dragged, or forced, or whatever, to walk somewhere... until the time ran to zero, and everything exploded in the gunshots.

.

.

o.0.o

.

.

Nate had no idea how he managed to drag him all the way to the next corridor which ended with the back stairs. Hardison was navigating him to the last office of the row, just two steps away from the stairs; it would take only a few seconds to reach them when Hardison gave the signal that the path was clear.

One giant copying machine looked solid enough to stop the bullets, so he carefully lowered him behind it, in the corner with a wall. Nope, wrong move; at the moment his back touched the floor, Eliot recoiled and his breathing, jagged and barely visible, turned into a suppressed cough. Nate quickly pulled him up.

"Okay, easy, don't move." He eased him back to lean on the wall, in sitting position, and that helped, the coughing stopped. He checked his pulse; Jesus, it was fluttering, unnaturally fast, and barely palpable.

What was he supposed to do now? Keep him awake and risk one more deranged breakdown, or let him drift away, unable to wake him up when they had to go, very fast, down the stairs?

The gunshots decided his dilemma; at the moment the attack started, Eliot opened his eyes, and his hand unknowingly reached under his jacket for the gun that wasn't there. He was way, way down that road, Nate realized.

"Are you able to talk?" he said calmly; he needed a distraction, something that would keep him here, in the small, closed room, and divert his attention from the shooting. He half expected that he would try to go again, just get up and blindly walk out of here, but Eliot slowly raised his head and looked at him.

"The last guy who asked me that was Barclay." Nate listened to his voice; weak, almost a whisper, but there was a steadiness in it that he didn't like at all. "Yes, I am able to talk," he carefully continued, slowly, as if he had to think about every word before saying it. He probably did; he was barely able to keep his eyes open. "First, I quit. Second, I'm going away from here. Third… you wait 'til Hardison says it's safe. The fourth… if you try to touch me, or even come one step closer, I'll break both your arms and one leg."

Damn. Nate wasn't a fool; he knew damn well how to recognize a decision when he heard one…and this was deadly serious, said with an even, calm voice that added even more weight to his words. Eliot had put a bullet in _Parker_'s leg because he thought it was necessary.

Nate sat in the first office chair he found, not bothering himself with hiding from the door.

"You _do_ know what's happening with you right now?" he asked gently. "You do know that you are delusional, in severe shock, and you can't think clearly?"

"I know what I'm doin'. I have to go. It's the only way."

"For what?" he asked slowly.

Eliot stared at him, and Nate realized that he was unable to understand the question. His eyes wavered from him, he wasn't listening to him anymore. He didn't know what exactly he cemented in his mind, but he had to pull him out from that stupor. He was looking at a spot near him, listening to the shooting. It seemed that the shots came from all sides at once, and Nate sighed.

"Hardison, status?"

Sophie's voice came first. "You can't just knock him out with something?

"That… wouldn't be a very wise move."

"He wouldn't…" she hesitated. "You mean, he would?"

"Yep, no doubt about it. But don't worry… he'll pass out soon, and I'll drag him down the stairs by his legs, like a dead cat." Nate checked, no reaction came from Eliot, his stare was completely empty. "Besides, the police should be here in fifteen minutes tops."

"He doesn't have 15 minutes, Nate," Hardison's voice sounded desperate. "Sophie showed me when he stopped breathing with the right side, it was over twenty minutes ago. Remember what Betsy said. You have to move him somehow… or he won't make it to the office."

"How's the shooting going?" Nate continued conversationally. "Any chances of it stopping soon?"

"I have no fucking idea what I'm doing! Nate, I'm going all over the building, locking and unlocking the doors and corridors, trying to separate them each another, and somehow direct them off the back side of the building, trying to… I don't know what! Whose side are we even on? If I see a Mexican and a Chilean that are about to shoot each another, which one should I stop if I can, for crying out loud?" he continued with curses. "I'm simply stopping everybody from shooting at… at anybody… but that shit will just prolong this, they are spreading all over! The longer all of them stay alive, the bigger the danger is for you two! Fuck, I should just kill them all."

"Calm down, Hardison. Where's Villacorta?"

"Half way there, Parker turned on the sprinklers to show him where to go, he must be pissed, completely wet by now."

"Okay, slow down," Nate said, watching Eliot who was listening to the shooting, his face becoming emptier with every shot he heard. And with every shot, his eyes were becoming more and more desperate. "Just continue with what you're doing, will you? Now, cut yourself and Parker from the line." He waited until he was sure Hardison had done it, then continued with the same tone, just a little lighter. "It's possible that this is just a lot of noise, like in the movies. A few wounded, a bunch of heroes, no dead, and they'll all scatter at the first sound of police coming. Much ado about nothing. Just like this entire night."

Oh, yes, he heard him. Eliot slowly turned his head to him, and Nate sighed. There was always a possibility he would stop after the first arm.

"The shooting started two minutes ago. We have three dead in this corridor," his voice was flat, his eyes empty, every feeling erased from his face. "We had one Chilean with a Magnum, very close, who just died while you were talking. He is not shooting anymore, and he still had three bullets. Maybe you remember him, he's the only blond guy. He had cheerful smile, don't you think? But he is dead now." For a few moments he lost his train of thought, again watching something Nate didn't want to know about, then managed to continue. "Do you remember the one that was standing behind Villacorta? He was the youngest. You could tell by his glances he was insecure and fresh – he probably didn't kill anybody yet. Perhaps he would. But we'll never know now, because he is dead, too, Nate. He died second, he was killed by the third burst of the Uzi – after that, his gun was silent. A very distinctive gun, a small Bulldog. The Uzi jammed after killing him, and there were three shots from the same position. That Mexican is dead too." He smiled; the first _tired_ smile that Nate saw on his face. And his eyes were dead. "Do you know _why_ those people are dead, Nate?"

Fuck. Nate recognized the desperation in that last sentence, in every carefully formulated word. Eliot was defeated – he had finally encountered an enemy he couldn't beat – Eliot Spencer. And he had knocked himself so deep into the ground that he didn't know if there was even a chance of recovering.

"Do you think this was a motherfucking _game_, Nate?" his voice grew a little stronger. "Do you want to know what exactly happened in Marco's Tavern? How I drug Rojas right to his death, knowing they'd shoot him? Just because I needed him dead to start the fight. I talked to him in the car; he was scared. He wasn't a damn lieutenant, evil, bad guy, a dreadful name… he was just one scared man to me. But it didn't stop me. Do you want to know how I turned on the phone Villacorta was tracking, to draw the Chileans after me to the Mexicans, to their death? How many Mexicans died in that tavern, just because I arranged it? How many of them deserved, really deserved to die, and how many were just selling weed on the streets?

"We all have our own abysses that we have to stare into, Eliot," he said gently. Knowing that his words were empty.

"You _don't_ understand," his voice finally cracked, he continued with a whisper. "I don't stare into abysses. They come and stare at _me_. And when I look back, they avert they eyes, and back off, slowly, not turning their backs on me."

The silence was considerably longer this time. Moments passed while Eliot gazed sightlessly into him.

"Let me go, Nate," he finally whispered. "Everything I touch dies. I will kill you all."

Fuck. He got up, and went to the small window, he couldn't stand watching that pain anymore. He should think of something. He _should_ be able to solve this, to find something that would just make it all disappear.

At that moment he became aware of all the smoke screens that Eliot was putting around himself even before the night begun; all the reasons for distancing himself from them. Their guilt because of the night, their guilt because of his death, their ditching him with disgust after they realized what he had done… he was creating that for himself, not for them. He collected all the possible reasons to not return after this all ended, because he knew he would have to run away from this. No… not reasons. Excuses.

He couldn't run away from this, they'd caught him in time, after all he had done to prevent it. But he could die. It was less painful than facing the consequences. Nate knew that decision was the result of a disturbed, incoherent mind, born under the delirious fight or flight state of shock, no matter how steady and coherent he sounded… but it made no difference. Eliot wasn't, definitely, letting him take him to the team. He would just prolong all this, staying awake as long as he could, and he wouldn't hesitate a moment in stopping him if he tried something, leaving him in the heap of broken bones. And when he finally passed out, it would be too late to do anything for him.

That bastard had lured him into a check, put him in a corner the same way he did with Villacorta, and blocked all the fields around him, disabling him to move, to do anything. And he had a check mate ready in the next move.

It was strange to hear the utter silence in the midst of the wild gunfire that echoed all around them.

"You are, _again_, listening to his words." Sophie's voice, soft, gentle, was so quiet that for a moment he wasn't sure if she really said that, or he just thought it. "Look at him. He is _there_."

She should have been here, not him. She would find a way to let them help him, she would be able to force him to go to that basement corridor. There wasn't time to deal with this breakdown now, not while his time was running out. They had to save him first, give him time to recover from this deranged exhaustion, and only after that, when his mind was clear, it would be the time to assess the damage.

One crisis at the time. Like always.

Yes, of course he was listening to his words… but now he took a deep breath, and tried to _watch_.

And there was nothing to see. He was sitting in the exact position as they had seen him in that damn warehouse, with one hand on one raised knee, the other around his chest. Waiting. Listening. Allowing parts of himself to die with every single shot he heard. They'd come full circle, returning to the beginning of all this, and Eliot again disabled them to do anything for him. Yet, this time Nate knew what two dreadfully wrong moves in that warehouse led to all this, and he wasn't going to do the same mistake again.

He watched, for Christ's sake, and he had no idea what he was supposed to see. Eliot's eyes were empty again, he was drifting away, able to focus only on the nearest objects. The edge of the copy machine, his hand, his knee. He looked dead already, there wasn't any visible breathing, his breaths were too shallow to be noticed.

Nate went back to his chair and stood beside it. No reaction. Just to try it, he took one step further towards him, and Eliot's slightly lowered head rose in a second, his eyes locked on the target. Not a trace of recognition were in them, just a cold calculation. He had set a border, and he was ready to destroy anything that touched it. Nate knew that this immobility would explode into violent outburst one more time, if he only took one step more to him. He wasn't afraid of broken arms… but Eliot wouldn't stop. He would kill him. He was too deep into this to have any control left.

He checked his watch; only four minutes had passed since they'd entered the room, and he felt like they had been locked here for ages.

"So, you agree then that we should stay here for the next ten minutes?" he asked calmly.

Eliot blinked, visibly trying to understand what he was asked, but the question was too complicated for him to decide what to think about it and what Nate meant to say. His eyes flickered toward the doors, as if he was checking to see if the escape still available, at the moment completely disorientated, not sure if the question was a threat to his decision or not. He tried to say something, but there was not enough air for words, just a raspy cough that bent him forward.

Nate quickly came closer, but Eliot raised his head again, his eyes completely crazy for a moment. "Back. Off," he hissed the warning.

And then Nate realized what he had to see. What Sophie had in fact said and meant, her _exact_ words. _Look at him. He is there_. Still here, in this room. Eliot hadn't left.

Eliot asked him to let him go… but Nate wasn't keeping him here. _Nothing_ was keeping him from escaping.

His words were talking about going away, about escaping from all this, and yet he was still here. He could just get up and leave, there was no chance that Nate could stop him. He had enough strength for that.

His mind was producing those words, but his actions were telling a different story. Sophie was right. His mind now was one strange place, confused and totally lost. He couldn't understand reason, logic, and he wouldn't listen to it. His head was a mess of horrors that was making him wanting to die, and he couldn't realize that all of this would feel different if he just waited to get it together again. His mind was literally killing him.

And yet, he was still here, because there was one thing that wasn't affected by this madness, that was aware of reality. His heart.

He knew that, Nate remembered now, in the moment when he looked him in the eyes at the terrace, when he saw the pairs of mixed emotions; hate, madness, fear and defeat, fighting with love, control, laughter and victory… perfectly matched and glued together. His mind. And his heart.

The only thing Nate had to do was disable that mind so it could give no warning of the attack. At his strongest spot, just as Eliot did with Villacorta.

Check mate, Eliot Spencer.

.

.

o.0.o

.

.

Hardison slowly raised his hands from the keyboard. They were shaking uncontrollably, and he swallowed, checking the time for the hundredth time. He felt Sophie's eyes on him, but he didn't care; the damn grifter couldn't guess what he was preparing himself to do.

They didn't get it, nobody had any idea what was going on, and why it was too late for everything now.

Shaking wasn't good, shaking could kill. But he couldn't stop it.

He drew a shaky breath, and started the countdown, preparing himself for going out.

He was terrified.

.

.

o.0.o

.

.

"Hardison will give me a sign that the way is clear. Soon," Nate turned around and returned in the chair, trying to speak as clearly as possible.

Eliot just shook his head, resting it on his knees.

"Sophie, tell him to connect everything back, I need a status update. Villacorta?"

"Out of the park. I connected Parker back to us," Hardison said. His voice was strangely insecure. "Nate, is he-"

"Keep this line open, but call me on my phone. I'll put you on speakerphone so we both can hear what's going on. Just the status of the Mexicans and the Chileans, Hardison. No babbling or chatting, we don't have much time."

"Tell me about it."

He waited until the phone rang, then switched it onto speakerphone and put it on the table.

"The second floor is completely empty, all the Chileans that dealt with the control room went down and joined the rest of them, except the terrace. Few of them fight there. The first floor is a mess, they are spread all over the place. The Chileans are trying to push the Mexicans into the back part of the building, which is extremely bad for you, 'cause I can't tell at which moment they'll succeed. If the Mexicans reach the back stairs, which, for now, I'm able to delay by locking everything that's on their way, they'll be directly under you, and your way to basement will be blocked. Not to mention they have only to climb one story, and they will be in front of your door," Hardison sighed deeply. "I can't give you the sign to go for now, because one group is shooting in the basement, directly next to the stairs; you would jump right into their fire. The basement part is less occupied for now, though some of them, both sides, are retreating down there as well. All in all, after the first explosive encounters, they started to calculate, they are more careful, they are waiting, they hide, they plan their steps. Less shooting, but more unpredictable moves from everybody. Less bullets fired, but with more accuracy. Everything has slowed down a bit but I can't see traces of anyone thinking about retreating. No sound from the police yet."

Nate said nothing when Hardison finished, he just put the phone back in his pocket. He couldn't tell if Eliot understood the situation, though he thought it was a process that didn't need any effort, it was natural to him, just like counting the bullets and weapons was. It was automatic, it didn't require thinking.

He pulled the chair a step closer, to the border that was set for him, and again the empty stare froze him in place. But that stare was what he needed, not the lowered head.

"You said you would kill us all," he stated gently.

No reaction.

"You're right," he continued. "In fact, you're doing it right now as we speak."

No understanding, not even the slightest sign he heard him.

"You are the reason we are all here. We won't leave without you. We are staying here, in this fuckup, as long as you're here. That's a fact. I'm not going anywhere, Eliot. And they won't hesitate to come in and try to get us out. And no matter how deeply you're lost right now, you know it's true."

"Oh, Nate…" Sophie's sigh was so damn sad, but he couldn't pay attention to them now.

Eliot continued to look at him for another ten seconds, then he lowered his head again.

Nate leaned back in the chair, stretched his legs, and relaxed.

After fifteen seconds filled with only gunshots, Eliot raised his head again. "The sounds from the basement group are more distant now," he whispered, his voice empty of everything. "Those from the first floor are closer. In a half a minute they'll be on the stairs and block the way. If you're ready to go, now is the time to do it."

Nate waited.

"You have no idea how deeply you'll regret this," he shook his head in desperation. "But, at least, you'll be down there, not two floors away from them." He grabbed the edge of the copy machine and hoisted himself up. "Stay behind me."

.

.

o.0.o

.

.

They would yell, they would be pissed off, and Hardison would look at her with _those_ hurt eyes, she just knew it. But Parker couldn't stop thinking, and moving her finger all over the escape route, in circles that were becoming more and more frantic, and faster, as her thinking was speeding up.

Hardison was lost in his own horrors, she could recognize and feel that distress, he didn't pay attention to her.

But Sophie was watching her finger, the route that she was drawing, and she saw the points where her fingers trembled and stopped.

She looked at the grifter then, with the helpless question in her eyes, and for a moment she could feel her struggle too, just as she felt Hardison's.

The grifter closed her eyes for a moment, but when she opened them again, she nodded. And smiled at her.

Parker smiled back, and grabbed her bag.

.

.

o.0.o

.

.

"I managed to disconnect one group of Mexicans from the others in the basement – I've locked them in the rooms behind the pools, and released all the chlorine into the water – they took just one breath, yelped, and run back into the room. They'll stay there, it's impossible to pass the pools now. But the Chileans chased another group from another direction, they might intercept you in the basement. You have to get to the corridor before they reach it."

That was the last of Hardison's report they heard before they entered the hall. Eliot sent Nate to bring him the Magnum from the dead Chilean. Three bullets. That'd be enough.

Everything was so damn slow.

He forbid himself to think.

He just moved.

Two stories, three bullets. Find one damn corridor. He could do it.

Everything was swinging.

His mind was blank, thank god, he directed himself only to the steps, climbing down, shooting; the Mexicans that rushed through the door were like caricatures caught in slow motion, their aim was pathetically slow. They weren't even able to change the surprise on their faces before he shot the three bullets; he had enough time to decide where to shoot them. The first in the leg to make him stumble back and hit the second man, and a bullet in each of second Mexican's hands to disarm him. He took the gun that fell from his hand, and Nate closed the door.

No thinking. Move. If he stopped, only for a second, if he allowed himself only one question, only one thought, he would go down; he had to continue without any change in the rhythm.

He didn't dare turn around to see if Nate was following him, looking back would spin everything, he just followed his aim, down, and down, and down, until the stairs finally stopped, and they reached the basement.

_He couldn't see anything except gray shadows and movements in them_.

He fired at the doors that were opening in the distance with a loud click, but Nate pulled him aside and turned him in the right direction, through a small passage with a ramp.

_He couldn't feel the ground beneath him_.

The corridor looked like a ten-mile long river of fog, turning slightly in the distance. No cover, no place to hide from the fire, the fucking firing range with two of them with a bull's eye on their back. But the seconds were crawling by.

_He couldn't breathe anymore_.

So he smiled, and continued.

.

.

o.0.o

.

.

She couldn't see Parker on the cameras.

She couldn't see Hardison anymore.

Nate and Eliot were in the corridor with no cameras in it.

The only thing that Sophie could see were the Mexicans and Chileans that were spreading all over, firing at everything that moved, coming closer and closer to the corridor that was the only exit for all of them.

She knew someone had to stay and monitor everything. But she hated that that had to be her, because just now, when she was alone, Sophie Deveraux realized that those four people were the only thing she had left in her life.

And she couldn't see them.

.

.

o.0.o

.

.

_... at least, you'll be down there, not two floors away from them_. It was almost amusing how Eliot's words were the only thing that was reeling in Nate's mind while he was monitoring their progress. That was the exact thing he was thinking when he decided to move him. Instead of counting how far they had to go, he just decided that every step and every stair was a success, and relaxed. He took care not to move into the hitter's line of fire, he stayed behind him, and played invisible.

Eliot started to slow down when they entered the corridor. The stairs should have been much more difficult for him, but it seemed that the task that was more demanding kept his concentration sharp enough. Nate came closer, not sure if there was a reason for that in their surroundings.

They only went fifty more meters when Eliot simply stopped. He didn't turn around.

"Nate, one group is climbing down the stairs, they'll enter the corridor after you. You should hurry, I have nothing to stop them!"

"Sophie, the Mexicans are not my biggest problem right now."

"No, they aren't." Eliot took two steps to the side and blindly reached with his hand until he felt the wall for support. He actually smiled, but his eyes were closed. "Come closer."

He carefully put both guns in his hands. "Take them away. Prints. You should leave now."

Nate looked at him, with a terribly sinking heart. This wasn't a rejection of continuing, this was…

"Hardison," he whispered. "We need that oxygen. _Now_."

"No… use…" Eliot managed to whisper, shaking his head. He leaned on the wall with one shoulder, not moving for a few seconds. A loud metallic sound behind them, very close to the entrance of the corridor, forced him to push himself off the wall and turn around, but he staggered without support. "Go. Now." That was the last thing he managed to say before a vicious spasm of coughing bent him forward. Jesus, so much blood.

Nate held him and let him slowly kneel, hoping for a moment that this was just one attack, which would stop like the others. He was wrong. _Damn, he told him he would regret this_. Now he knew what he was trying to say. The coughing continued, without a second of pause. He couldn't breathe in, and the only thing that came out was blood.

"Move!" he pulled him up on his feet again, knowing that they had only seconds to reach the van; staying here would kill him. He was still coughing, and that meant there was _some_ air that was getting in, somewhere; that hope was the only thing left. "Walk! Stay awake and just walk!"

He pulled his arm over his shoulder and directed his steps, keeping him upright, and next few meters went by inertia, he was dragging him more than he walked.

"Parker, now would be a good time." Sophie's calm voice shook him; what the hell; no, he couldn't think now about them, not while Eliot's coughing was becoming weaker after every step they made. He was rapidly losing his strength and his weight started to drag them both down.

A deafening explosion somewhere behind them almost knocked them both down, and he staggered, barely able to keep them upright, and a rain of mortar and dust fell over them. Right at the moment Eliot's legs gave way and the only thing that was keeping him from falling was Nate's arm, Hardison grabbed him from the other side.

One more explosion covered his words. The damn idiot didn't bring the oxygen. He brought a fucking _knife_.

"Keep moving!" he yelled. "Don't stop, we have to get him to the-"

"Too late for that. Oxygen can't help him now." Hardison stopped his attempt to continue walking. "You'll need to help me. Lower him down."

"No! He has to stay upright, if he-"

"Nate, stop!" he wrest him from his hold and slowly laid him down; Eliot's eyes were open and he was still trying to breathe in, but the effort was useless. Hardison waved his hand before his eyes, getting only the slightest reaction in return. "Keep him awake. Don't let him move." Hardison was cutting through his shirt as he spoke, and Nate stirred from the stupor, kneeling next to them. He was too low, all that blood was closing all his breathing paths, but even when he lifted his head and shoulders, he couldn't see any change. Eliot stopped coughing; no air was going in.

Another explosion shook the entire basement and he swore, noticing that even that didn't force Eliot to blink.

"Eliot, look at me!" He slapped him, trying to pour life back into his eyes, to get any kind of response, to stop that creeping emptiness, but all of it was in vain. "Stay awake! Don't close your eyes!" He checked his pulse; it quivered, for god's sake, it went from almost nothing, to rapid bursts, as his chest moved in the last attempts to breathe. They were losing him.

"Fuck." Hardison sounded stunned for a second, and Nate glanced down. He had cut through his bandages as well, but he couldn't see anything.

"What are you doing?" he whispered.

"Me? Nothing. I don't have to. He did it by himself, the fucking bastard," Hardison's voice wavered. "Now I know how he is even alive at all, why he isn't dead already… I thought I'd have to do it, and I prepared for it, I really did, in fact, I should have thought-"

"Hardison! Focus!" Nate kept his hand on Eliot's neck, with the other hand holding his shoulder to prevent any movement. "He's not breathing! Whatever you thought you could do, now would be the time-"

"It's done," Hardison whispered. "Look down."

Nate followed his eyes. "What-" he stuttered when he saw the blood on the floor. The fucking pool of blood, growing larger every second. "What have you don- he was already bleeding out, you've just kill-"

"No. It's the blood he'd already lost, not new…" Hardison whispered, rubbing his face. His hands were shaking. "It was the only way… tension hemothorax, Nate… too much time passed since his lung collapsed, the pressure was rising constantly, pressing on his heart, blood vessels, trachea, everything. I had to… I thought I would have to… to…"

"What?!" he growled.

"To fucking stab him with his own knife!" Hardison cried. "To let the blood out and ease the pressure… but I didn't have to. We were wrong. He didn't _remove_ his chest tube. He just cut it, leaving it in, closed off." He raised his hand with something in it; a small piece of duct tape. "I've opened it. He told you he did something to buy a few more hours this morning, remember? Now I know how. Fucking... practical."

Nate stared at him, but a change under his hand made him look up sharply; Eliot's pulse had stopped bursting, it felt quieter. And his eyes were closed. At the moment he thought that wasn't a good sign at all, he heard one rasping breath. Shallow, barely visible, but it was there, and then another one, still rattling.

"Is it working?" he whispered, too frightened to hope.

"In theory, less blood in the chest cavity means more room for air, 'cause the lung can spread again. Sophie, you can come now." He looked at him. "I didn't want her to come before we knew…"

"The back stairs are destroyed. No one is going into the basement anymore," Parker's cheerful voice chirped in their ears, causing them both to flinch. "I demolished the beginning of the corridor too, the way is blocked, and that group of Mexicans is cut off from you. I'm going out now, meet you at the van."

"How did she get-"

"The first explosion was her entering point, Nate." Sophie was already there, she must have been waiting just one turn away in the corridor. "Dear god," she whispered coming closer, and froze. Hardison had to get up to take the oxygen from her. "Is he-"

Nate checked his pulse again; it was still terribly weak, but at least it was more regular than just a few seconds ago. "Alive? Yes. But we have to hurry. Eliot, do you hear me?"

No response. Hardison put the mask on his face and fastened it. "I hope this will keep him alive until we reach the office. Nate, lift him up in a sitting position, carefully. Sophie, you'll carry the tank, okay? Damn, this is going to be interesting…" He took a deep breath, and picked him up, the same way he had carried Parker before, yet this time he staggered under the weight. He swayed the first few steps, but he continued.

The damn exit was just one turn away; after the dim light in the corridor, the sun felt unnaturally painful, but Lucille was just two steps away, and Parker was already entering the van.

Nate helped Hardison place Eliot in Parker's nest, and then turned to _Estrella_ for a second. Gunshots were still echoing from the depths of the building, and in the distance, from all around, the howling of the police sirens could be heard. Less than _one_ fucking hour. It felt like they spent three lives during that time.

"Move, Nate!"

He jumped in, closing the door, and Parker pushed the gas.

"If you don't mind…" Hardison crawled into the other corner and curled himself into a shaking heap. "I would like to pass out now."

Sophie sat next to Eliot on the floor, holding her hand on his neck, monitoring his breathing, and Nate crumpled next to her. He had to sweep the van three times with his eyes, to assure himself that everyone was here, finally… and then he checked once more, just in case. And he dared not feel relief… not yet. Karma was a bitch, she struck the most deadly blows just when a flicker of hope was born again.

"Maybe we should try to wake him." Sophie's voice was still trembling.

"We should." He pulled a blanket over him, remembering that victims of shock should be warmed, "But she is driving, and it's better for him to be out. Hold him in one place."

Something flew from the front of the van, barely missing Sophie. Handcuffs.

"Just in case," Parker murmured. "And I locked the doors."

Nate stared at the handcuffs, trying to stop the attack of hysterical laughter, when he felt Sophie's hand in his. He swallowed, something in his gut, painful, frozen, finally melting down. Her eyes were smiling.

He squeezed her hand, not letting it go, and closed his eyes, resting his head on the wall.

"Parker, take us home."


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

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They were really extremely lucky that Betsy was so steady and calm during a crisis, because they were in complete chaos when they finally arrived. The apartment was full of things from the second apartment, the delivery service took Hardison's order very thoroughly. Nate was even thinking they would find the bathroom cupboards somewhere.

Betsy placed the hospital bed at the far end of the room, removing his work table from the place where Old Harlan hung, between the wall and the stairs; the table was now posing as the medical console, full of…. things with lights.

Hardison laid Eliot down on the bed, and immediately staggered and crumpled on the floor. He pushed himself away and rested his back on the bookshelf, closing his eyes. Parker was trying to walk to and fro, not looking at the bed and Betsy, but she was limping and her straight line was starting to turn into a circle. Sophie just stood frozen, waiting to see if Betsy needed any help.

It was damn comforting to look at Betsy. Her moves were quick, but calm, routine and without any trace of panic or distress. Nate tried to concentrate just on her, and not on the bloody, lifeless mess under her hands.

He almost missed Hardison suddenly jumping to his feet. The hacker took Sophie by her hand and pulled her to him. "You two," he whispered. He took Sophie and placed her beside Nate, now facing both of them. His eyes were stricken. And wet. "I have enough of this shit, you read me? I'm done with carrying bleeding people around. No more of that shit! You're not allowed to get shot, stabbed, cut, anything, ever!"

Nate tried to say something, but Hardison waved his fist in front of his face, wild–eyed. "Nuh – uh! Not a word! I want you to promise I won't have to carry you! Now!"

"Of course, darling, we promise," Sophie smiled, stepping on his foot, and he sighed.

"Yep, we promise," he said without any hesitation. "Don't worry."

"And now, I need you to come with me," Sophie took Hardison by the hand and drug him away. "You have to wash yourself, and change your clothes, and then you'll get your orange soda and finally sit down, okay?" She hushed the hacker in front of her, and darted a glance to him. He just nodded.

And it was about time. Parker had stopped walking, and was now standing by the bed, with her arms crossed.

"It's not dripping." Her voice was almost mechanical. "It's called a drip, it should be _dripping_. It's not dripping. And why isn't it red? He needs blood, not that… something. It's not dripping, by the way. It's… pouring."

He didn't need to jump in and take her away. Betsy smiled at her.

"He's dying, dear." She managed to say _that_ in an almost comforting way. "Aggressive fluid replacement, and a drip set to a rapid rate, and not on dripping, is the only thing that can save him now. He'll get colloid infusions first, two full bags in the next fifteen minutes, and blood products, PRBC that's still being prepared. After that, we wait." She looked at Nate for a second. "Without all the necessary equipment, I can't tell if this is a stage three or four Hypovolemic shock. The symptoms and readings are somewhere in between. I'll know after…if, he reacts to the therapy."

"It's not so bad, isn't it?" he asked carefully. "I mean, it's not like he is between eight or nine, or…"

"There are only four of them," she stated calmly. "The full forth stage is massive organ failure and possible brain death. The damage is irreversible at that point."

"He was walking just fifteen minutes ago. And he talked with Nate," Parker whispered. "You can't talk without a brain, especially not with Nate."

"He should have been down two hours ago, and then things might have looked different. Nate, I need you to help me. I'll lift him into sitting position, you hold him upright for a few seconds." He quickly obeyed. She used a scalpel to cut through Eliot's jacket, then the back of his shirt, dividing the fabric completely before they laid him down again. Nate didn't know much about emergency procedures, but he noticed that Betsy connected all IV's to him first and only after that did she think about how to get rid of the clothes around the tubes. It was screaming about critical measures, completely outvoting the calmness in her voice.

The door bell stopped his sluggish thoughts; he was desperately trying to find the question that would give them an answer they wanted to hear.

"It's a delivery, open the door." Betsy nudged him to move, giving him a small chest. "Blood samples, going to a laboratory for analysis. After that, turn up the heat to the maximum and make coffee. Move." She pulled out a phone while she was speaking, and he could hear her while he was giving the chest to the delivery man. "Roth, the highest priority. U+Es/Chem7, FBC, Glucose, Cross-match. Call immediately. Tell Sciortino I'll need him for a house visit at some point today."

He went to the kitchen, keeping an eye on Parker who still stood guard, and when he heard the beeping of the heart monitor he almost dropped the coffee can. It was one thing to feel that pulse, but to hear it echoing through the room was almost unbearable. Betsy pressed a few buttons and lowered the tone, but it wasn't enough, she could do nothing to slow it down. It was still frighteningly rapid and labored. He could feel his own breathing speeding up; he left the coffee and just went out of the apartment, not daring to turn back and face Betsy's eyes.

He went downstairs, into the bar; there were only a few regulars this early in the morning. Cora's smile was warm and greeting, but it slowly froze when she saw his face. She said nothing, just put the bottle on the table.

It was his first drink in four days, and he barely felt it.

When he raised his hand to pour another one, he saw the blood stain that his sleeve left on the wood. She stared at it. "What happened? Who-?"

"Don't ask." He carefully moved away from the table, letting her wipe it up. "I need you to do me a favor… go from back door all the way up to my apartment, and mop up all the traces that we have left. It might be… more of this. Don't go in there, return here. And if you notice anything suspicious today, call me."

She nodded and left immediately, and he went to the back door and into the small alley, taking the bottle with him. It took him five minutes before he found it… the pieces of the smashed phone by the wall. He carefully picked up every single piece of it and took it with him. Avoiding looking at the stain of blood near it.

"_Are you able to talk?"_

_"The last guy who asked me that was Barclay."_

He didn't dare to imagine how this place looked in the dark hour before the dawn. But he was, unfortunately, able to fill in all that was left unsaid in that conversation.

Then he looked up, at the windows of the apartment, knowing he had to return. And not wanting to. He stayed there, walking around, until it became harder to be in the alley than in the apartment.

He prepared himself for the beeping, and noticed it was slightly slower.

Hardison was changed, sitting at the dining table with Sophie, holding a hot cup of coffee with both hands. Parker was standing, staring through the window behind them. Five cups were on the table, and for a moment he just looked at them, then poured some whiskey from the bottle into Hardison's. The hacker darted him a grateful look. He seemed a little calmer, but his eyes were still too fast, too wild.

"She chased us away, and said to sit here." Sophie nodded him to repeat the process with her coffee.

Betsy joined them in a minute. "He was certainly right about one thing," she said with a thin smile. "Some rules don't apply to him. Any man in poorer condition would have been dead a few hours ago. What exactly happened when you found him?"

Damn. Nate stared at her.

"His condition and symptoms, Nate, not the details of the mess he made."

That was even worse. He described the last fifteen minutes with careful mitigation, knowing that Betsy would fill the blanks.

"You did good," she nodded when he finished. "I'd hoped he would understand what I'd told him about that chest tube. He had been thinking about it like an enemy that kept him in the hospital, and not like an ally that could save his life. Besides, it's normal practice in field medicine for a pneumothorax; he told me he did it once, and I knew he would remember that and realize that the principle is the same. He probably used it at some point last night, or he wouldn't have lasted this long, but that dealt with the danger of drowning and tension hemothorax only for awhile… unfortunately, it couldn't do anything about his bleeding out. And _that_ is the thing that can kill him."

"Still can?" Sophie whispered.

"I'm trying to stabilize him for now, and it looks like he's reacting to the therapy. I have to warn you that doesn't mean anything certain, complications from that kind of deep shock and blood loss are numerous. But, you saved his life, for now, by lessening the pressure."

"I need to know something," Hardison said hesitantly. "If there wasn't that tube, would it kill him if someone tried to…to…" his eyes fidgeted under hers, and he stopped. "Nothing. Forget it, never mind."

"What have you done so far?" Sophie took over.

"His blood pressure was critically low, I raised it to extremely low, and I'll keep it that way for a few more hours. It's called permissive hypotension. If we are at Mass Gen, with a surgical team within reach, I would risk getting his BP up to normal, but not here. Higher BP increases the bleeding…" she looked at them, and sighed. "It's like when you water your garden and have a hole in the hose… the higher the pressure of the water, the stronger the leak. I gave him enough IV to replenish the blood he lost, but it's just volume expanders, so he got PRBC to increase oxygen delivery. I'll know more when the blood results come back."

"When will he wake up?" Hardison asked the most important question.

She hesitated. "Let's just concentrate on keeping him alive, okay? We still have to see what will happen in the next few hours… even if all goes well, the night will be hard. I suggest you take some rest."

"Why is he so cold?" Parker's voice sounded alarmed; no one noticed her leaving her spot by the window.

"Don't touch him, dear." Betsy got up. "It's normal for temperature to go down, he is filled with cold fluids."

"It's not normal, it's… wrong. He looks dead, and now he _feels_ dead, it's wrong, it's…" her voice trailed off as the beeping changed rhythm, speeding up again. "Is he awake? Could he hear me?"

"Probably not," Betsy led her away back to the table. "But he is not in a coma, he is just unconscious, and that can vary. He will probably drift in and out of it later, and we won't risk disturbing him with alarmed tones, okay?" She nodded to him before she returned to the bed.

"Okay," Parker whispered and slumped in the chair. Nate poured whiskey in her coffee, too, and then went to Betsy.

"You should send the kids away," she said quietly. "Let them go home, get some sleep."

"No, I can't… it's not safe for any of us to be alone now. Too many… things happened last night, we have to stay here, and together." He forced himself to look at the bed. Betsy had wiped away all the blood and changed his bandages, and looking at him wasn't so dreadful, but still… he looked dead. Even with that damn beeping. Which was slowing down again, by the way. "He _did_ hear her, right?"

"He maybe heard something. Maybe he would react the same way to the slamming of a door, or any loud noise. Wait until tomorrow before you even begin to hope, Nate."

He clenched his teeth and said nothing.

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o.0.o

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After five hours, everyone was able to detect even the slightest change in the beeping, and Sophie knew that meant trouble. Parker and Hardison had been walking around for the last hour, unable to rest and calm down, every now and then circling around the bed when the beeping showed that he was, maybe, a little closer to consciousness. Three times their attempts to wake him ended with another tachycardia. The third time Betsy didn't have to chase them away, they got the message, finally, and they directed their distress to rearranging the stuff from another apartment. They were making noise and talking without pause, but Sophie noticed that Betsy didn't say anything. She was just watching them all, with silent attention. Her chair was on the other side of Eliot's bed and while watching over him she had all of them in sight.

Nate wasn't any help. He was just sitting at the dining table, completely lost in thinking. Sophie hoped he was going through all the details of the previous days, but she couldn't be sure; his eyes were already half crazy because of the beeping, and unreadable. He put away the bottle after a few more drinks, thank god… she thought he wouldn't stop until he emptied it.

All of them needed sleep badly, especially Parker. The thief was ghostly pale, it was obvious that every step was painful, but she just couldn't _stop_. She helped Hardison drag the new sofa around; they'd spent almost twenty minutes trying to find the most perfect spot for it. Nate finally stopped them when they tried to lift it up the two stairs and place it between the dining table and the bed. They settled on the lower corner, near the screens. Sophie hoped they'd try it out; if they stopped themselves just for a minute, the exhaustion would knock them out… but they weren't that lucky. Parker insisted they had to put Old Harlan on the wall in his place, and Hardison couldn't say no, as always. The only problem was that his hanging place was on the wall beside the bed, so they maneuvered their way, quietly assuring Betsy they would be almost invisible, and done in a second.

Hardison brought the picture, Parker brought the chair, and they were whispering so Betsy allowed it, probably knowing it would be faster to let them do it, then to endure their reassuring.

They were all very lucky she went over to see if they needed help.

Their whispering became arguing about who would get on the chair to hang the picture, and the low sounds became hisses.

Nate was the first one who noticed that the beeping sped up again and he was already on his feet, Betsy right after him. But, Sophie was the only one that saw Eliot's hand move. There were catheters in both of his arms, with IV fluids and blood, and his right hand was already disconnecting both IV lines in his left, with economical, routine moves.

"Sophie, don't-"

Only when Nate's alarmed voice sounded in her ear did she become aware that reaching with her hand to stop him could be a deadly mistake. She didn't have time to think, or to pull her hand back when she touched his, and he caught her wrist, twisted and pulled her down, with her elbow stretched to the final point before breaking. She swallowed the cry and remained completely still, staring at his left hand. He pulled it back from the blanket and it hung in the air like a string, with his fingers just slightly bent, not in a fist, aiming directly at her throat.

"Hi there," she whispered with a smile in her voice, just barely aware of the four frozen silhouettes around them. His eyes fluttered open and focused on her face, but the string didn't loosen a bit. She couldn't see anything in his eyes, just a silent alertness. "It's okay. You can let go now. I'll just sit here for a while." She couldn't tell if he let loose of her hand because of her words, or because he couldn't hold it anymore, but she managed to slowly stretch her hand. Finally, the hand ready to hit went down too. "Everything's fine, it's over. We're safe," she continued gently. He remained still and for a moment she thought he was listening to her, but Betsy took one step closer, looked in his eyes, and just shook her head.

He managed to keep his eyes open only a couple more seconds, and Betsy quickly dealt with all the damage, connecting everything back up. "Stay here if you can," Betsy said, checking the monitor. The jumping lines were quieter. "You're calming him down." She pointed to the sofa, with a clear order in her eyes, and Parker and Hardison sneaked away silently.

She took off her shoes and curled up on the bed on his left side; it wasn't important if he wasn't conscious enough to understand her, or recognize her. He allowed her to keep her hand on his arm. _That_ was important.

She just sat there whispering quietly about peace and safety, and listened to the slowing of his heartbeat.

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o.0.o

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He wasn't sure how he knew it, but he was pretty certain that all this confusing shit looked strangely familiar, as if he was going through a flashback of a flashback of a nightmare. Only, this time, something was terribly wrong.

Everything was full of voices and all of them were distressed, and he couldn't recognize anything, or explain to himself what he was hearing. He only knew that he should be out of here, as far from them as he could – and he knew he couldn't. _Something was terribly, terribly wrong with him_. Those voices brought the loud, quick sounds that were making him nervous, and it seemed that those sounds made _them _even more nervous, and that beeping, and the distress in their voices, rose and rose, feeding each other, to the point he thought his head would explode.

_He forgot to tell him one important thing_.

Before he could think of who was in question, and what that important thing was, a quiet, warm whisper turned the beeping off. There was no tension in that whisper, no distress, it was calm and quiet. It silenced all the other sounds.

He managed to open his eyes just for a moment, only to notice the light. It was yellow, and it was warm – and he didn't know why, but it brought relief.

He had no idea where he was, and why was important for the windows to stay lit.

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o.0.o

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Nate's worry grew through the late afternoon when he realized that Betsy had stopped sending Hardison and Parker to rest. In fact, every time they seemed to be on the edge of passing out, she would find something they needed to do. At the same time, she left Sophie to sleep on the sofa for hours, even when the heart monitor she connected again started to speed up.

It was obvious that she wanted just the two of them to be awake through the night, and younger ones solidly knocked out, so he simply stood up and said that he was going to sleep for a few hours.

"Don't worry, the two of us will be awake," Hardison said. "We'll call you if anything changes, go ahead. I'll go through the stuff I collected…." he ran with his hand over his eyes and face, trying to concentrate. "… this morning. That'll keep me awake. I'm also working on something that I started yesterday. Remember I told you it would be important only if this ended well?" he glanced at the bed for a moment and sighed. "Whatever. I'll do it now."

"You okay?" the question escaped him before he could stop it.

The hacker hesitated, considering a few answers before he settled on a short one. "No," he lowered his eyes to the screen again. "But that's expected, I guess. Go, get some sleep. We don't want to mess up Betsy's sleeping arrangements, do we?"

Nate just smiled and let him work.

Betsy seemed occupied with Parker's switching channels. Nate was pretty sure that she didn't care what was on the huge screens, that she was just trying to catch a clue about Parker's mind… or her state of mind. Or maybe the absence of it. The screens flashed by at the speed of light at that point, and the thief stared at them without blinking, with glazed eyes.

"Any change?" he asked, stopping by the bed. He couldn't tell for sure, but Eliot's face didn't look as ghostly pale as this morning, at least the parts of it he could see. The oxygen mask was still covering his face.

"His lungs are mostly clear now," she glanced at the machine on the floor that was still draining the blood. "And the bleeding has slowed down. You know, Sciortino was right when he said he should be in ICU. There's no way he could see what state this wound is in without opening him again. He agreed to wait only because the transport would kill him, and because there's a slight chance that monitoring the bleeding will show us the progress. Especially when he saw… Can you explain the bruise under the wound? Did you see what happened?"

"No, I don't know anything about any bruises." But he could guess what happened. _Who_ happened. "That did… damage?"

She looked at him like she would look at retarded two year old monkey that was pissing in her kitchen, and he sighed, feeling exactly like one. "Let me rephrase that… how dangerous is the damage?"

She glanced at Hardison whose every radar was pointed at them, though he seemed deeply occupied with his laptop, and instead of answering she simply took his hand and put it on the side of Eliot's neck.

"Wh-" he flinched, surprised, but then figured out what she was trying to say. He was too warm to touch. He pulled his hand back, but not before he _remembered_; years of practice returned in one pained moment, and he knew exactly. Over 100 F already.

"I put him back on his antibiotics, but there's been an almost 24-hour pause, and it's messed up. The blood results are not as bad as I expected, though they show there's a present infection. That's normal for postoperative care of a gunshot wound when it's treated. When the treatment is discontinued, and when there's also a nasty hit that messed with the stitches and caused more bleeding… well, it's not good. Sciortino was resolute; if it goes up to 104, there's no waiting anymore." She watched him for a few moments while he stared at him, then continued. "I started with vasopressin, I'm raising his blood pressure now. Bleeding, when we can substitute with transfusions, is now less important."

He slowly raised his head and looked at her. "What are the chances, Betsy?" he whispered.

"Did you expect he would be alive this morning?" she asked.

"I knew he would."

"Me too," she smiled. "Do you want to know what chances he had for that?"

He smiled back, accepting that for an answer, though he knew it was just a professional diversion on her part. She knew better than anybody how different this situation was, and how much weaker he was, literally holding onto life by a thread. But she had to give comfort and hope, it was stronger than her.

The sound of an incoming text message saved him from answering. Bonnano. 'I'm in the bar, coming up to you.' Damn, it was too early for that. He had no strength to deal with Patrick now, particularly because he knew why he was here.

"It's Patrick," he told Betsy, and went to wake up Sophie. Sleeping would wait.

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o.0.o

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It took exactly three times longer than usual for the cop to climb to the second floor, and fresh coffee was ready when Hardison let him in.

"Coffee," Bonnano croaked from the door. His eyes were bloodshot.

Parker was now sitting on the kitchen counter, Nate was going through the cups in the cupboard, searching for one big enough, and Sophie's forehead was on her hands, on the dining table. Bonnano just passed them all and went to Betsy and Eliot.

He came back after a few minutes of quiet talk with her, and he was even darker when he sat at the table.

"Steel is in a safe house," he said grabbing the cup. "The shootings stopped during the day. The damage is estimated to be in the millions. The number of dead is-"

"No numbers, Patrick." Nate stopped him, sitting at the table next to Hardison who typed something.

"Yeah, no numbers," Patrick sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I have no idea what will happen tonight. This... thing… can die out all by itself, or it can continue and escalate."

"What would you like to happen?" Nate asked carefully, and Patrick looked at him sharply. "Not that I can do anything with it, I just want to know where you stand in all this."

"I've never seen so many cops grinning while preparing for a sleepless night, nor so eager to grab their bulletproof vests when going into shootings," he murmured. "There is something strangely fascinating about seeing the people whom you've been trying to put behind bars for years, dozens of them, dealing with each other for you, and you only have to watch, stop the shooting, and put them all in custody with clear accusations this time. Half of my men go around with lists in their hands, and scratch names from it; it was Christmas. Yet, on the other hand, the dead…" he trailed off and sighed, glancing at Nate for a second, then decided that he didn't need to continue in that direction. Nate watched his face lightening with effort. "So, when he is back on his feet, I was thinking… I have a cousin in New York, he's a captain. Can we send Eliot to New York for three days, and three nights? It'll be enough time to clean up."

"And why we would do that?" Hardison asked quietly, looking at him with innocent surprise in his eyes. "He wasn't connected to those unpleasant events. He was in the hospital the entire night."

Bonnano blinked. "You don't have to sell that to me, I-" he stopped, thought about it, and smiled. "Let me see that."

Hardison grinned and turned his laptop so all of them could see. Parker joined them, peeking over Sophie's shoulder.

"This is the hospital footage from the last night, I collected only the important parts. Here we see a patient, Daniel Crane, exiting the garage of the ER. Here he disappeared in the darkness, entering a small park with a statue of a woman and a baby, surrounded by trees. And not leaving that area. Three hours later, we see him again going near one camera, and returning to the same park. Demented, poor man. He obviously had no idea what he was doing, and while everybody was searching for him, he just kept himself hidden in the dark. There's no sign of him on any other camera in the complex. He never left the hospital circle, until the very dawn, when all the nasty things in the town were almost finished."

"How the hell do you think you can put this into the hosp-"

"I worked directly _on_ the hospital footage, this is their database. It's already in there. They delete it after three weeks, so ask for it, just in case, so you have a copy if necessary. I've spent hours and hours working on it, while doing other things, and I can tell you-"

"Can we skip the 'behold my genius' part, Hardison?" Nate stopped him. But he gave him a genuine smile while saying it. "You did good."

Hardison just bowed with an elegant wave of his hand, and took the laptop back.

"Okay, now that I participated in faking an alibi, I can continue in the same tone," Bonnano sighed again. "My informants in the gangs have nothing on Eliot. The Armenian one saw a man that came to Aghenazer last night, but he'll swear he can't recognize him. Though, all this mess won't just go away, Nate. All the gang heads are now sitting quietly, asking themselves what the hell happened… okay, except maybe the Irish. They are occupied with the changes after Callahan died."

"And if they calm down enough to start exchanging notes, that could lead them all to us," Nate finished. "Yes, I know that's a possibility, but as far as I could see, Eliot's actions were well covered. Besides, we now work for Villacorta, we are cleaning up the mess for him. I've sent him away for ten days, after we saved him from the Mexicans."

Bonnano almost choked on his coffee.

"If anyone wants to deal with us, the entire Chilean cartel will be ready to help," Nate continued.

"You're not kidding, right?" Bonnano almost moaned.

"Eliot bought us some time until we wait for Villacorta to be charged."

"In fact, we can offer to Villacorta to run his cartel while he's in jail," Hardison said thoughtfully. "I could run gambling, Sophie would be a brilliant madame, Eliot can take over Rojas' role dealing with the other gangs, if there's any left…"

"By the way, Villacorta knows a lot about you and your actions," Nate ran over Hardison's words. "It might prove necessary, at some point, to tell him you're finally bought. That would make you useful."

"Welcome to the Dark Side," Hardison grinned.

"You're all insane," Bonnano shook his head.

"Yep," Nate grinned as well. "That's part of our charm."

"Well, this charming bunch is not allowed to leave this place until I see if the streets are safe. And who knows about you, and what. Stay low and don't attract any attention to yourselves," he glanced at the bed. "You are without protection, and besides, you have to be here because of him."

"I was planning just that. I need time to think." Nate said. 

"About what? I'm serious, Nate, don't go out there. A gang war is the worst thing that could happen to a town." 

"No, it isn't. The only thing worse than that is terrorism. If we count only one man's doings, and not natural catastrophes." 

Bonnano looked at him, studying his smile. "Okaaay…" he said carefully. "You're right, it's not bad tactics... when you're in deep shit, think about how things could be much worse. But let's concentrate on the gangs and cartels for now, shall we? Terrorism is way out of our league. I'll call you if anything new happens." 

"Sounds good to me." Nate glanced at the door. And smiled. "Now, you can call him and tell him he can come in. We don't bite… more than usual." 

Bonnano darted him a speculative look, but all three of them gave him raised eyebrows.

"Someone's at the door?" Hardison got up. "Do you want me to-"

"No, Patrick will open the door." Nate held him in place.

"How did you know?" Patrick got up.

"You don't usually need six minutes to climb two stories."

"Yes, I usually don't." Patrick watched him with strange look in his eyes for a second, then went to the door.

Letting Randall Coddington in.

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His arm was in plaster, his nose was covered, and his knee was in some sort of plastic cover. He came in, helping himself with a crutch, and Bonnano helped him with the two stairs.

Sophie and Hardison looked stunned, but Parker was on her feet, making a dull sound; it was not growling, it was something almost prehistoric, low and dangerous. Bonnano and Coddington stopped and stared at her. She was wearing Nate's old pajamas and her hair was still wet from showering. She looked cute, beautiful, and deadly insane.

"Parker, sit," Nate said calmly and the sound slowly vanished. He glanced at the bed and Betsy, and added, "Just in case, keep your voices low and calm, okay?"

"It is time for a formal introduction," Bonnano was grinning. "This is Randall Coddington, known by his street name Fernando. Randall, these are the associates of Leverage & Associates. And these are, believe it or not, my friends. Randall is my friend too. Very close friend."

"It is _very_ nice to meet you," Coddington smiled, showing his teeth. His hair was still in braids, though he wasn't wearing Chilean colors anymore, just unobtrusive gray shirt and jacket. Bonnano nudged him and he reluctantly sat at the table.

"Kill him," Parker murmured. "Kill him now."

"Parker, stop," Nate repeated, feeling Sophie's and Hardison's eyes on him.

"I told you, after your first… incident, in the hospital corridor, that I don't want to talk about him," Bonnano continued. "It wasn't the time for that, he was transferred to another hospital and taken out of your sight, and there wasn't a point in clearing this stuff further. It could wait, especially when Eliot started to hurry things up, and we were occupied with that. But, you obviously figured it out. When and how?"

"Just this morning," Nate said. "We were listening to Eliot's conversation with Villacorta, he framed Cuchillo as a State Police informant, and told him about Coddington as well. And Villacorta didn't know about it, it hit him hard, though he didn't show it. If Villacorta didn't know Coddington was State Police, how he could buy him to be his dirty cop?"

"So, you're saying," Coddington said carefully. "That he didn't only break my clavicle and ribs, but also got me almost killed by revealing my true identity to Villacorta?"

"Yes," Nate smiled. "You were extremely lucky this morning, because you were called to your execution. If you didn't see our van, and decided to check it, you would probably be killed."

Coddington stretched his leg, glancing at Sophie who was observing him. "So, Miss Devereaux, you saved my life, then, stopping me from going to Villacorta?"

She put both elbows on the table, slowly rested her chin on her hands, and smiled at him. Coddington flinched. Nate hid his smile; most people couldn't endure _that_ stare more than two seconds.

"Can we start from the beginning?" Hardison asked. "We have recorded him trying to kill Eliot in a warehouse, Nate stopped him from doing that for the second time in the hospital, and you claim he isn't bought? Pardon, you two," he glanced at Nate, "claim he's not dirty?"

Bonnano thought for a second. "Well, have you ever asked yourself why I was so close to the warehouse, and why the ambulance car was already on its way in when you called me?"

Nate looked at Coddington. "You called them?"

"I called before we entered the building," the younger cop nodded. "Four of us were just following you, and our task was to give a sign to those who were waiting here for your return. You'd left, we scattered, and then Cuchillo spotted Spencer going back and called us again, deciding we could deal with one. He told us that just before we went in the warehouse, so I had a very little time to improvise. I made my calls and went in after them just in time to see Cuchillo shooting him."

"Well, you improvised brilliantly, I must say, because I watched your performance," Sophie said coldly. "All that circling, laughing, kicking… someone will say you played the role of your life. Or you didn't play at all."

"I didn't play anything, I _was_ trying to knock him out in the beginning," he smiled bitterly. "I was even thinking about shooting him once more, just to put him down before they finished him. If they thought he was dead, it was only chance for him. Patrick and the ambulance were on their way, they would find him in a few minutes. But, it ended just a little different than I expected… in one moment our helpless victim stood up and crushed us completely."

"Why didn't you tell him who you were when he fought you back?" Hardison's eyes were still narrowed in suspicion.

"Good point," he smiled again. "I was the last indeed, because I was always a little behind them, just in case, so I had enough time to tell him everything, right?" He darted a cautious look towards the bed. "But, problem is, I was too stunned to even think. I just stood there, watching him speeding those three steps, with _that_ look in his eyes… and everything went black. Have you ever tried to explain something while a man takes three quick steps towards you, and you saw him knocking down armed men, _after_ he got shot, all in about five seconds? I think I had a time for one very eloquent _blah. _First meeting with Leverage & Associates, result broken bones_."_

Nate smirked. "And what about the attack at the hospital?"

"Nothing special. Doing my duty, answering a wake up call that told me Ramon was on his way to third floor already, running through corridors like an idiot, in pain, I must say. Then, barely succeeding in stopping Ramon from killing a respectable member of Leverage & Associates in time, _again_. After that, just when I went to check if the honorable member was alive and well, another man showed up, the one I was not formally introduced to yet, so I couldn't be sure if this murderous freak was really the one Patrick was talking about, or another threat. And I had no time not even for a _blah_, 'cause I had to save my life. So, another meeting with Leverage & Associates resulted in a broken nose," he glanced at Nate again. "Your skill with blades is… unique."

This time was Nate's turn to flinch. "There were two of them in the corridor; one on the stairs, and one came in the elevator when you went down."

"Didn't know about them. You mean Villacorta send cleaning party after us? Or _for_ us?"

"I'll ask him the next time."

By this time, even Sophie was smiling. Parker's eyes were almost shut, and she was not looking at Coddington, she was checking the others to see their reactions.

"And, finally, my third contact with Leverage, this morning, ended with hurt ligaments and a headache." Coddington grinned as well. "I'm really surprised that the two of you," he nodded to Parker and Hardison, "didn't get a chance to lay your hands on me."

"I'm not violent type," Hardison murmured, suddenly seeming occupied with his coffee.

Parker tilted her head, and smiled. "While you were in the hospital, I put laxatives in your food every day," she said. "But not only in yours, I did it to all three of you."

Coddington went green. "You… you…"

"Oh, I wonder if it was before or after I changed your check lists, and put you on proctology tests two times a day?" Hardison murmured again. "But not only you, the rest of the warehouse gang too."

Coddington went red. "Patrick, can we go now? I'm not feeling very well…"

"Sure, sure." Patrick's face was calm, but his eyes were laughing.

"God, I'm so happy my cover was blown, and I'm being transferred, and I'll never see you again!" he finally said, wearily, hoisting himself up. Bonnano helped him with his crutch, barely managing to hide the smirk. "You're a murderous bunch. You would probably kill me the next time."

Nate went to see them out. "Where are you transferred to, by the way?"

"I've asked for Hawaii, the furthest from Boston. But they gave me Portland."

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o.0.o

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The next time, he remembered what that damn sound was, and what was causing it, and that memory brought Betsy's name. He remembered he liked her, and that there was no need to run from her. He even recognized the tall, black haired man that was standing beside her. Sciortino. They were arguing over something, mentioning transport and hospital and trouble, but he wasn't interested. He knew Betsy would get what she wanted.

Sciortino disappeared, and he wondered about where she hid the body.

The darkness was thick and heavy, and he knew he really messed up this time. He _felt_ wrong. Other voices were coming in and out the darkness, and there was that beeping again, and he was only able to helplessly listen to the rising noise, unable to explain to them that he needed to be silent. Loud beeping was a lot worse than any tracking device or camera; how he was supposed to do anything tonight if everybody could hear that?

He shivered; something was wrong with the word night. It brought dark images, and faces… a lot of faces that were making his breathing difficult. The beeping sounded alarmed.

Fuck it. He couldn't stand it anymore. He knew how to deal with that shit, he did it before, and he fought the images of the redhead woman, not wanting to remember all the fog that lay behind her, trying desperately to concentrate only on the sound that was making him crazy.

If he just took those things from his fingers, the machine would howl a flat line, and the alarms would bring _them_…. he suppressed the panic and opened his eyes. He had no one to connect the clamps to, and he couldn't think of anything…

_Kill the machine first_.

Everything was within his reach, on the table, and he blindly stared at readings for a few seconds. Kill the machine first. He slowly reached to the monitor, his hand feeling like it weighed a ton, found the cords, and pulled them from the wall.

The damn sound stopped. He got rid of those things on his fingers and laid down again closing his eyes, allowing himself to fall down into the darkness again. And into silence.

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o.0.o

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"Well, I think we don't have to worry about the brain damage anymore., Betsy's whisper was colored with a smile. "If he asks for papers, pen, and a mirror, then we're in real trouble."

Three of them were sitting at the table; Parker was on the sofa with a headset, going through the channels, trying to find something that would occupy her for more than ten seconds, and Sophie was dozing beside her.

When they realized the beeping stopped, Nate's first thought was that something was wrong; Betsy went to check what happened.

"And what should we worry about?" Hardison eyed her cautiously over his laptop when she returned and reported what he had done.

She just smiled. The hacker gritted his teeth, and stared at her, and Nate wondered if he would collect enough courage to ask her about the knife again… but not this time, obviously. Betsy was normal with him and Sophie, gentle with Parker, but reserved with Hardison, and he knew that was because of his upsetting Eliot back in the hospital. She saw only Eliot's side of conversation and how upset he was, and she couldn't know that wasn't Hardison's fault.

"You will connect him to the heart monitor again?" the hacker swallowed and bravely tried again. "Is it necessary, if he doesn't want it?"

"It is." She leaned on the table with both hands, and Hardison leaned back. "His heart could stop without warning. Do I have to explain why it's important to start reviving him at once, and not after one hour?"

His face went ashen and he glanced at the all things she had prepared besides the bed. "You mean you have…all that here? How? From the hospital?"

"Nope, I bought it. He transferred an insane amount of money into my account. He tried to buy me at the beginning, but I think he figured out it's not working."

"I'm sure he did," Hardison managed to smile. "You can't buy friendship. He knows that."

"No, you can't buy it," she looked at him, her voice quieter. "But you can pay heavily for it."

Hardison swallowed and went silent, and she returned to her post to continue her watch.

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Parker passed out in the evening. Literally.

Hardison found her on the floor in the kitchen when she stopped clanging the bowls and cereals that she was preparing, and Betsy simply put her in Eliot's bed. The monster bed was so huge that when she arranged pillows on the opposite side of it, Parker's feet were just reaching his left hand. Betsy connected her to an IV bottle and checked her leg, putting on a new bandage. She let Sophie stand guard while Nate and Hardison were chased away into the kitchen.

Nate tried not to show his distress; Betsy knew nothing about Eliot's mental state, and even when he almost killed Sophie it was normal for her, but he knew that this wasn't the brightest idea. Hardison was too worried about Parker to think about anything else, but Sophie was sitting on the bed tensed and ready to react in a second.

The whole day they had been waiting for him to wake up finally, but now Nate prayed he remained unconscious until Betsy said Parker might go out of the bed.

Parker came together very quickly, and two of them were allowed to come closer, but Nate forbade them to speak at all.

That was awkward; the silence, their tension, and their close watch, but Betsy still said nothing, continuing to watch them all. Nate really didn't want to know her conclusions about them.

Parker obediently kept her mouth shut, but after ten minutes of immobility, when her eyes couldn't find anything new and interesting in her surroundings, Nate noticed she started thinking. He came a little closer and leaned his shoulder on the shelf, watching.

Sophie was sitting between two of them, turned toward Eliot, and Hardison and Betsy couldn't see Parker's foot, in a green sock, that slowly moved and nudged Eliot's hand.

She glanced around the room, seemingly disinterested in everything, and repeated the move, tapping his fingers. Nate quickly checked the heart monitor; no change for now, he wasn't aware of anything. Yet, if she continued trying to wake him up, that could change.

He waited, not sure if he was scared because even a touch on his hand couldn't wake him up now, or because there was a possibility she might succeed, but Betsy ended his dilemma.

"That will be enough." She disconnected the IV from Parker's hand and helped her up. "Now, sleeping."

"Upstairs," Nate looked at Hardison. "I don't want to see you until morning, both of you."

"But I can-"

"I know you can. But, we'll need someone fresh in the morning. And I need someone to keep an eye on her, okay?"

"Okay," Hardison sighed and rushed the reluctant thief up the stairs. "Call me if anything… well, call me."

Finally. With two of them gone, even Betsy seemed a little more relaxed.

Nate went to make more coffee; the night was closing in.

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Five times he tried to remove his oxygen mask. Five times some annoying presence returned that damn thing to his face. He knew why he was doing it, for god's sake, why couldn't they just let him decide for himself? He felt Betsy's presence in the background and he was pissed at her, too, because she was letting them boss him around. She should chase away all the visitors that were disturbing him, right? Well, those two were definitely _disturbing_ him.

The mask was a nuisance, but the damn blanket became the real enemy. No matter how many times he moved it from him, the thing returned again, cooking him alive. He admitted, during the times he was freezing its return was welcomed, but it helped little. A few times the chatting of his teeth was loud enough to even silence the gunshots that were constantly echoing in his mind, forcing him to recognize the guns.

His annoyance went through the ceiling; he was hot and he was cold, and everything hurt, the darkness was itchy and suffocating, it brought pain and gunshots that were so loud that they even managed to silence the beeping.

He had to admit one thing to those two; when they were talking, gunshots went quiet. That gave him time to breathe, and try to think, and place himself somewhere.

He knew it was night and fear that he couldn't explain held him in its grasp, paralyzing every move. Instead of lying here, he should have been somewhere, doing something. _Something was terribly wrong with him_. And the blanket attacked again, confirming his words. That thing had a will of its own, and he couldn't-fight-one-lousy-blanket.

_Everything is wrong_, he heard one voice in his head, and tried to open his eyes. It didn't work. No, it, worked, he corrected himself. He felt his eyes open, but the things he saw weren't there, around him, in the room. He was watching dark alleys, dead windows, and unknown faces.

_Nothing's changed, Eliot_. Fuck. It was night, it was dangerous, he had to get away from there. He had to run away from that voice, from its calmness. It was damn convincing, he _wanted_ to believe him, to trust him. He always did. But not now. He couldn't.

Yet, the mask was returned to his face when he pulled it off, and a cold hand on his forearm stopped him from moving. He vaguely remembered the time when it took a lot more than that to stop him.

They were stopping him from disconnecting the IV.

They were stopping him from moving.

They were stopping him from killing the beeping again.

He had no idea why they were still alive.

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"No, I'm not going to lower his temperature." Betsy was resolved. "I have to know the real condition, and if it goes up, I'll call the ambulance to take him to urgent surgery… I do hope it won't be necessary, because it'll mean he's getting worse."

"You said he's too weak to be transported," Sophie whispered.

"He is. But at that point it'll be the only option."

Sophie sighed and said nothing, returning to the bed and Nate.

Eliot reacted differently to the two of them. She couldn't keep him still even with holding him and whispering to him to calm down, but Nate only had to put his hand on his arm to stop his tries to push away the blanket, or reach for the mask. Her turn was when he started to breathe faster and when the beeping rose; Betsy said he was remembering the things that were upsetting him, and Sophie worked her magic, pouring a smile over him, calming him down.

As the night slowly crawled into dawn, the moments when both of them needed to stop him at the same time were longer and longer, and her fear grew. What scared her the most was his silence. He hadn't tried to speak, he didn't said anything, not even when he was looking at them not knowing who they were and where he was, completely delirious.

She knew when he was almost conscious, not because of his moves, or the opening of his eyes… it was when he was trying to free himself.

She hugged herself standing behind Nate, watching them both, too miserable to even think of how to tell him that Eliot, deep in the fever and unaware of anything around him, was constantly trying only one thing, over and over again.

To free himself from the things that kept him in that bed. That kept him _here_.

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The voices sound frightened and that was the other, worse kind of disturbance. He could stand the shaking, pain, being hot and freezing at the same time, and keep all of that deep in the darkness, but that fear was pulling him up, forcing him to _think_. Their fear stabbed his brain, reminding him constantly of… something.

They murmured orders and pleas, all in the same tone, and that was confusing him even more, because now he knew who they were. He was pretty much proud of his reasoning; he noticed first that they were scared, and that the fear in their voices terrified him. They weren't a threat, or else he would be glad to hear the fear. They meant something important. And then he remembered what the only important thing in his life was.

God, he could clearly hear one high scream of his heart monitor at the moment he remembered everything.

The sweat burned his eyes when he opened them to see her, and he was surprised that she didn't have three heads. This huge amount of awful-fucking-weakness-with-hallucinations was connected to the morphine until now, but this time pain was there as well, which meant he was messed up and in this state _without _the damn drug. Which led to the conclusion that he was even worse off than he thought he was, whatever the reason for that was. He was missing entire hours.

Sophie was crying. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her in real tears… after the Maltese Falcon, perhaps? _Shit, something was wrong_. And how many times did he have to repeat that thought, over and over again, before he finally admitted that something _was_, fucking, _wrong_?! He felt like a moron. He fought to pull his thoughts together, to get rid of the darkness, but it was too much. He was slipping again, and he had to repeat her name in his head to not forget who she was.

Her tears even managed to pull him out of Marco's Tavern, silenced the firing and screams, and cleared the night, bringing the dim light of two small lamps.

The apartment. They'd brought him here. _Idiots_. Everything that he had done would come there after him.

He pulled the mask off, but this time he held her hand when she tried to put it back on, and shook his head. The damn words couldn't form themselves into a simple question; he needed to know why she was crying, what happened, and why only two of them were there, but it was too much to even think about it.

He looked at her, still holding her hand; damn, the first time he succeeded in seeing her, and not some other faces, and she was _crying_.

It hurt.

He slowly reached up with his left hand, and touched her face.

A hand clad in black flashed and caught his wrist, and he blinked, staring at it with a strange feeling of the wrongfulness of that move, that position, but before he could think about it better, another image got in the way. A white floor, despair and the need to run away from those hands.

He blinked again, realizing that nothing had moved for a few seconds, and then the black hand slowly released him, leaving his hand on her face. It was important, he told himself. He tried to say something, yet the question was too far gone and the screams grew stronger again, and he couldn't hold his hand in the air that long. It took almost a minute before he realized she was crying because of him.

He did something wrong. _Everything is wrong_, added a memory in his head.

"I'm sorry, Soph," he breathed, hoping that would stop the tears, but nothing was going like he wanted. She searched his eyes and almost smiled, but silent tears became sobs as she leaned to him, her forehead resting on his shoulder, covering his face with hair. Soft and cold hair, smelling like apples. It was much better than gunpowder.

She told him something that he couldn't understand, and he just raised his eyes to Nate, searching for a clue. Nate didn't look pissed off because he made Sophie cry. He stood with his hands in his pockets, watching him, and his eyes were attentive and keen. _Villacorta looked at him just like that_.

He closed his eyes when faces started to merge, and when Nate's face first went into Villacorta's, then into the Irishman that he killed, and only Sophie's hair held him in the reality long enough to avoid another fall into the darkness. But it couldn't stop the screams from Marco's Tavern anymore, they became loud and desperate, and he couldn't hear his own words. He only knew he said something to Nate, because when he opened his eyes again, his face was much closer, Sophie was sitting up again, and Nate was squeezing his hand, trying to make him focus.

_Great, he disturbed him too_. He was sick and tired of making people miserable and scared.

"Stay awake, and repeat that name, Eliot," Nate's voice was a barely sound, but his hand pulled him out of the fog once more. "Do you remember what, exactly, we have to do?"

"_Let me go. I will kill you all_."

"_You're doing just that, right now as we speak."_

He made Sophie cry. Nate's eyes were almost scared again. He couldn't breathe.

His hand went to the IVs to disconnect them, blindly, pushing Nate away. He could walk. He _would_ walk, able or not, they couldn't stop him. They wouldn't _dare_ to stop h- but one finger touched his forehead, right between his eyes, and Betsy said only one word: "Enough."

Fuck. He froze. Then he started to breathe again, knowing how pissed she would be if he stopped, and let her pull the blanket over him. He couldn't quite see her, he just felt she was there, but he didn't dare continue with anything.

"Eliot, can you hear me?" Nate's voice went softer now. "I need you to tell me everything that you can remember about that man. It's important."

He had no idea of what he was talking about. Closing his eyes brought the night back, but he wasn't worried about that. It seemed he remembered what he had forgotten to tell Nate, though he didn't know what that was. He could trust him to deal with that, and he allowed himself to feel a little relief.

He knew where he was now, and what he had to do. With the time, and effort, he would remember everything that happened and the whole picture would be complete in his head. He just had to wait until he became able to lift his hand longer than ten seconds, and gather enough strength to stand on his feet. He was good at disappearing.

_Everything he touched died_.

Not them. Not on his watch. And certainly not _because_ of him.


	34. Chapter 34

**Stay tuned, two more chapters will follow in the next few hours.**

**Sorry for delay, but this one was particularly hard to write, and all three chapters together have more than 35 000 words. I thought it would be better to wait a little more to get them all three at the same time, than to read them one per week.**

**After all, it's The end, so it's better this way, you'll get the huge amount of words for goodbye :D**

Chapter 34.

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"Get up and get dressed. I need you downstairs."

Nate left immediately after shaking him, and Hardison had no time to tell him that he was dressed. He peeked at Parker who was sleeping on the other side of the bed; the pale light that was coming through the window showed him it was early dawn.

He crawled out of the bed, feeling beaten and tired, though he knew he had slept more than in three last nights together. He took his shoes and silently went down stairs, trying not to think about all the reasons for being woken up.

At first he thought Nate had called him because of the good news, because Eliot's eyes were open and his head turned to him when he touched the wooden floor. Yet, the words he wanted to say stood clenched in his throat when he went closer and heard how labored Eliot's breathing was even with the mask. Sophie was sitting beside him, and he realized what the two of them had been doing all night at the moment he saw that his eyes were completely glazed, and his hair almost wet from the sweat. Eliot didn't know at whom he was looking. She turned around and he saw her face and red, tired eyes.

"You should have wok-" he started, but cut off his words when Eliot flinched at his voice and narrowed his eyes. Nate was beside the bed in a second, stopping any possible move, giving the him sign to stay quiet and go away.

Hardison made a bee line to the kitchen with worry twisting in his gut with renewed strength. He nodded good morning to Betsy who was sitting at the table and going through the newspapers like nothing unusual was happening. He needed Orange soda, and he needed it fast. He put his shoes on in front of the fridge, before opening it, and it was good he did it, because he would drop them and make a noise. He found himself staring at dark red bags full of blood. God, that was too much. He yelped, staggered backwards, and landed on his ass on the floor.

"Of all the movies in the world, I had to wake up in fucking Twilight. It's so… disgraceful," he whispered to himself, suppressing the urge to run into bathroom and throw up.

"You want some IV?" the disinterested voice above him startled him; Betsy was elbowing the counter, looking down at him.

"No, god, no, needles-" he swallowed and put his head between his knees.

"Get up and get it together." Nate joined Betsy. "You have to go to Eliot's place and get the phone he sent all of details to last night. It seems this shit isn't finished yet. He managed to tell me something he forgot yesterday – we have to find one man."

"What, where, who-" he struggled to his feet.

"He is better, Hardison," Nate said a little softer. "The night was pretty bad, but the fever is going down, and he recognized us. He knew where he was, and what happened."

"If this is your idea of 'better', I really don't want to think about the night," he murmured.

"He's just exhausted now; if he wakes up again and tell us more details, I'll direct you with further steps, but I'm afraid it won't be-"

"I'm coming too." Parker passed them, completely dressed, diving into the fridge and emerging with the orange bottle. Hardison gratefully snatched the soda from her hand.

"Not a good idea," Betsy said calmly.

"And what is he supposed to do, ring the bell? It's Eliot's place so we can expect no booby traps for the amateurs, he would have a hanging antitank mine instead of a girdle on the door."

"Good point," Nate sighed. "Hardison, set up complete communication, and go. I need that phone ASAP."

Hardison cradled his bottle and sighed.

"And don't forget to be careful."

.

.

.

Someone was arguing. They took care to keep their voices low but the whispers were distressed, nervous and troubled. Eliot forced himself to understand what they were saying, though it was an immense effort with almost no success; sentences were entering his mind but they were scattered there as if he released them into a shredding machine. His attempt to collect quickly the spoken words ended with fiasco because when he thought he managed to connect two or three of them, another fifteen was said in a hurried whisper, messing up everything and leaving him clueless.

He simply gave up; he was too tired for that shit.

The next time he drifted closer to the surface he heard them again. This time he took off the mask from his face, carefully testing his breathing; it was better than he remembered, and he was able to open his eyes. That proved to be a very successful tactic, because he could read their faces and gestures, and that brought the meaning of the words.

"We are losing time!" There was nothing gentle in Sophie's voice now, it was hard and worried. "We have to wake him up!"

"We'll find him. Let him rest." Nate was turned to the screens and he couldn't see his face; he was watching something that looked like phone menus.

"We've been trying to find him for the last three hours, and he said it's urgent!" she snapped.

"A little less hissing, and a little more paying attention to your surroundings would be clever," Betsy's voice was coming from the dining table and he slowly turned to look at her. She smiled. When he looked ahead him again – _damn, why it was so difficult_ – Sophie was in front of him.

"Good, you're awake," she smiled. Nate sighed behind her. "I'm sorry to bother you, but we need a few answers. Do you understand me?"

He thought about it, while she patiently waited. "No," he carefully said.

They were alone again, he noticed. There was no sign of Parker and Hardison, and he couldn't remember if he saw them during the night. He stared at her, trying to focus, not wanting to hear anything more, too scared to ask about them. The last thing he remembered before everything went black in that corridor were explosions and shooting… and Sophie was talking to Nate, he clearly heard her name at one point. If Sophie was at the computers, Hardison was out of the van. Somewhere in the building. Nate said they would come in to get them out. Shooting. Explosions. Forty Mexicans and twenty Chileans, and Parker and Hardison among them…

"Hey, hey, stop that!" He wasn't doing anything, yet a strong hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him. Shit, that hurt. "Wherever you are, you need to come back."

"Where are they?" he whispered, clenching his teeth. "What happened?"

"Hardison is checking your car to see if there was someone else in it besides Tapia." Thank god, Nate knew what he meant. "Parker is with him, they're both okay. Eliot, do you remember what you told me last night?"

Which fucking last night? "Few hours ago," Nate continued, obviously reading his eyes.

Who cared about that? He didn't remember anything. They were alive, that was enough for now. He wanted only to close his eyes again, he had no strength for talking. Or listening, or thinking.

That damn hand snapped him from the fog again.

"Eliot. Please. Focus for just a second." Nate sounded tired now, and he forced his eyes to open. "Who the fuck is George, where is he, and why we have to save him?"

_Crap_.

He stared at them, trying to connect everything, and not succeeding. They saw he was thinking and they patiently waited. He didn't remember saying anything about George, about anything else for that matter, but he obviously sent them to chase… _Jesus_. It was a shame his breathing wasn't yet good enough for a sigh.

He glanced around him. "Soph… give me that small pillow."

He carefully took it with his left hand – moving the right one was too painful – and put it on his face. He had never heard someone actually managing to perform suicide by the pillow, but there was a first time for everything.

"What the hell are you doing?" Nate snatched the pillow from him, suddenly sounding worried. Again.

"Killing myself," he whispered. "It's not like… I have any other way to do it."

"George, Eliot! Cut the crazy and talk. Who is he, where can we find him, and what's happening?"

"He… it…he…" he stuttered. Then reached for the pillow again, but Sophie growled at him. Fuck. She actually growled. _Sophie_. God, she must have been in total distress by now.

"He…it…" he forced himself to concentrate on talking. "George is a plant. In my room. In the hospital."

Three simultaneous long breaths were taken.

"A plant," Nate said carefully, lowering his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Texas mountain laurel."

"A laurel," Nate repeated, still not raising his head. "And what… and from where… what is the nature of the danger from which we have to… to save him?"

"I drugged him… morphine. His soil has to be changed," he planned to add a description of washing the roots, but his voice betrayed him, thank god. Too many words in too short a time.

Sophie was watching him with an unreadable expression in her eyes, and he was grateful when her hand stopped Nate's next question. "That's enough," she said softly. "Don't try to talk anymore, okay?"

He wasn't planning to talk at all, he tried to point out, but she put the mask back on his face and smiled. "Sleep now."

The last thing he heard before everything went black was Nate's sigh and 'abort the mission' whispered into the comm.

.

.

.

Nate wasn't happy that he had to leave Parker and Hardison alone on watch when they'd returned, but both him and Sophie needed rest. Betsy too; she refused to go upstairs with Sophie and decided to stay on the sofa, just in case, and that eased his worries a little. Knowing she was near them, and that they had to be careful and quiet not to wake her up, gave the chance of a few hours without further crisis.

He thought he would be relieved because they couldn't hear the beeping upstairs, but the silence was making him restless. Thinking about all the info from Eliot's phone wasn't helping either because his mind was going all around the town after his steps, filling the holes he had until now. And feeding his fears, too. The more he knew, the more he understood the state Eliot was in. His breaking apart was not caused only by shock and bleeding out, and it couldn't be solved just by transfusions and care.

"He reacts very badly to Parker and Hardison," Sophie's voice showed him she wasn't able to sleep, and that the same thoughts were on her mind too.

"What do you mean? He didn't know where they were, if this is what-"

"No, I'm not talking about what he asked," she turned around to face him and hugged the pillow, resting her chin on it. "Since we came here, every time he heard their voices, he went into tachycardia. They are disturbing him. We don't... or at least, not that much."

He thought about it, then got up and went to the stairs to check.

Hardison was with his laptop, Parker was watching cartoons, Betsy was sleeping and the beeping was regular.

"It must be painful to leave a situation without control." Sophie welcomed him with the smile, but he knew she was only half teasing. She was checking him the same way she checked Eliot's temperature through the night, with light, gentle touches. Yet this time, he left the bait hanging.

"It's too early to see anything certain. He spoke a few sentences, and he is not completely present yet," he said.

She said nothing.

He sighed. "He is better, he is calmer, not in shock anymore, and his thinking seems to be relatively normal. Maybe he won't even remember everything he said or thought after we left Villacorta." He had to say that – it _was_ a possibility after all - but his own words sounded empty to him.

"Of course, you're right," she purred softly. "But, what would be _your_ first steps if you were lying in a bed and wanting to leave it?"

He went through all the disconnecting and removing of everything that Eliot tried through the night, and sighed again. "Leaving the bed doesn't mean leaving… everything," he said quietly.

"It doesn't. But if you want to know for sure what he does feel – and that, my dear, is the only important thing here, not what he thinks – you have to watch what he does when he is unconscious, not what he shows, thinks, or says when he is awake."

"He trusted you when he was unaware of anything," he pointed out. "Parker and Hardison haven't done anything nearly so bad as you did to him, in that conversation."

"Because the problem is not what someone did to him," she put a hand on his face, and smiled. "The problem is what _he_ has done to them, that's what troubles him. He couldn't stand hearing their voices, Nate. Your team is falling apart."

"Give him some time. Maybe time is only thing that's needed to settle this."

"The time, Nate," she whispered. "is the only thing that we don't have."

He thought about all the implications of her words. And thought.

"The irresistible force meets an immovable object," he said finally.

"What?"

"When the paradox stops being the paradox?" he smiled. "The immovable object doesn't have a chance… because we have _two_ irresistible forces ready to unleash on him. And all the time we have, we have to give to the two of them. We must wait, and act only if Parker and Hardison fail."

"Fail in what? They don't even know the problem exists."

"Oh, they'll soon find out. Maybe I'm wrong… but they can't fail in being themselves."

.

.

.

Time was a very confusing category, but somehow he knew the cartoons were shown in the morning. The first thing that he saw, in fact, weren't jumping pictures on the screens – though his bed was placed so he could look almost directly at the screens – nope, the first thing was George, resting on the table near the beeping monster, in a huge white vase with the Leverage logo on it. He looked pretty satisfied with himself, he noticed absentmindedly. _Traitor_.

The first thing he did was remove the mask. He kept it near, in case he needed it again, but he had to breathe on his own.

He wasn't sleeping. They arranged this silence so he could rest, and they took shifts to watch over him, but he didn't plan to follow their arrangements. Nate, Sophie and Betsy were sleeping for now, and he could expect them back soon, which meant all of them would be here, awake, around him, the noise would grow, and they would start to cruise around him. Trying to talk, trying to ask questions, trying to… whatever. He couldn't do it. He calculated to be solidly knocked out when they gathered.

He forced himself to stay awake by staring at the cartoons, clearing his mind of every thought that could attack him. Hardison was coming every ten minutes to check on him, and he was closing his eyes at the first sound of his chair moving, pretending to sleep, opening them as soon as he would return at the table. His steps were cautious and slow, hesitating.

It wasn't easy to look at the screen without seeing the blond head that was the only part he could see of Parker behind the sofa; she was probably sitting curled under Betsy's legs. If she was able to curl, that meant that her leg wasn't… he stopped his thoughts and concentrated on the singing frogs on the screen.

He was too weak to think about anything else for now, and he certainly couldn't allow any change in his heart rate that would draw attention to him. No shootings, no images of the night, no faces, everything had to go for now. It would have to wait until his mind was clear again and able to think about it. To think about everything.

The singing frogs would keep him awake until the next shift woke up, and by then, he would be completely drained, unable to think, feel and hear anything. That sounded like a good plan… except this time, he had no idea what to do. He couldn't keep himself in oblivion forever.

.

.

.

The eleventh time Hardison went to check on Eliot he didn't return to the table, he stayed by the bed. He did his usual checks; rhythm of breathing, pulse, all the tubes, the readings on the Pleurevac, and everything looked normal, no change. Yet, he sat in Betsy's chair and looked at him.

"I know you're awake." He didn't know why he said it. Maybe because he could feel the silent attention and awareness in the air that grew stronger when he was near, though Eliot's eyes remained closed.

"I just want to ask you if you need anything. I'll leave you to rest," he continued when no response came. "Betsy said we can't give you anything to eat yet, but you should drink something at this point."

He turned around and looked at the heart monitor; it slowed down slightly. He wasn't a fool, he knew it wasn't relaxing; it was the immense effort to hide an annoyance, that went in the opposite direction. When he turned to him again, his eyes were open, but there was no annoyance – he would welcome that glare – nope, his eyes were just terribly tired. At least they weren't glazed - _or empty_, he thought, swallowing, trying to dismiss the memory of his waving a hand before his eyes, with no reaction in return.

"So…" he started. Damn, he wanted to say so much, but he knew if he started he wouldn't stop for hours, and it would finish in turns of hugging him and strangling him, with babbling about the fear, curses and probably very girlish crying. "… water or juice?" he said to his friend, in the fucking first talk after everything went to hell, to a man for whose life he feared for four days, and who was finally safe, with them again. This was awkward. Yet, he just couldn't babble as if nothing happened, nor did he want to upset him with _feelings_. He didn't want to upset him with anything, terrified by this weakness that leaked from his eyes. He had seen him beaten before, barely able to walk, in pain and tired, but this… this was a shadow of death still present, hovering over his shoulder.

His eyes might be weak but they never left him and he flinched, not knowing what Eliot was looking at, what he was searching for in his face.

"Okay. Bring me some water," he finally whispered, and Hardison sprang from the chair to the kitchen.

Eliot's eyes were closed again when he returned, but he heard him and forced them open. Damn, it looked like such a fucking long and tiresome process, seconds went by until he managed to focus on him again, and his fear grew.

"You have to be upright to drink," he murmured, playing with the remote of the bed until he found the option to lift just the upper part behind his back. Maybe he should have waited for Betsy to wake up, he thought when the sudden movement drained the little color Eliot had in his face. He wasn't on painkillers, Hardison remembered too late, and controlled his growing panic at the thought he maybe did something that he shouldn't have done. If there was a reason Betsy kept him lowered, and he just… damn. "You okay?" he asked, not daring to go that step closer, too scared to even check the readings.

It took few seconds for his eyes to lose the glaze of pain, and for his breathing to continue. "Fine." Eliot whispered. He carefully went closer.

He put the glass in his hand, watching the concentration he needed to simply hold it in place, but he clenched his teeth to stop himself from helping him when Eliot had to hold it with both hands to avoid spilling the water. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, and he took just one sip.

The beeping started to jump. Hardison crossed his arms, telling himself that he was just pissed because he was in this condition; this was expected. He changed his mind when the shaking spread to his shoulders, and when he clenched the glass to keep it upright. _Fuck that shit. _He cleared his throat, not quite able to erase the fear from his voice. "I think it's enough. You should calm down now."

"You think?" Eliot hissed the response, breathlessly, and Hardison quickly looked for the mask, lying beside him on the blanket. He cautiously came closer and reached for the glass.

"I'll take it now. You should put the mask back on." Damn, the beeping was now as fast as it was when he brought him here, and he swallowed the panic once more. He took the glass and put it on the table, too scared to touch him, or to lower the bed, even to give him the mask. "Don't freak out again, okay? And don't move. You shouldn't move."

Fuck, he said something wrong, he could tell, but he had no clue what; in a second Eliot's face was bland and closed like Hardison had never seen before.

"Don't worry. I won't freak out. And won't move." His voice, in awful contrast with his rapid heartbeat, sounded leveled and controlled. "Take it away… I have to rest now."

"Well, finally." The dry voice behind him caused Hardison to turn sharply; Betsy was standing behind him, looking pretty pissed off. He should have known the change in beeping would wake her up. He raised both hands in the air, and ran away, leaving Eliot to deal with her.

But he noticed the relief in his eyes when she came, and it stabbed him; she should be the enemy here, not a savior.

.

.

.

"I want t-to go to the hospital," he said to Betsy as soon Hardison was far away enough not to hear anything. He was shaking so hard that his teeth clattered.

"I would ask you why, but it would mean you would have to explain it to yourself first, which you won't allow, so I'll just pretend you didn't say anything. Or that you're just whining."

He stared at her, trying to untangle her words.

"I can think," he said slowly. "You d-don't have to test me with this sort of… shit."

"Of course," she grinned and sat on the bed. It was an immense relief to see someone who didn't have fear in their eyes, and who came close to him without any hesitation.

He thought about a different approach. "Why am I here in the first place, and not in the hospital?"

"They had to bring you here, there was no other choice. Hospitals are now a kill zone for you, with all the casualties from the night gathered there. I thought you hated hospitals."

"I do." But much less than this… _this_. He should have chased Nate away and stayed on the stairs. He shouldn't let him trick him into moving at all. He should… he blinked, trying to stop that useless thinking. What ifs were always in vain. But he could bet now that they were as much just as delighted with his being here as he was.

Betsy was watching his thinking, and he had learned that her silence was always dangerous. Her hands were not shaking just because she had to come within his reach. She didn't fear that he could freak out and kill her. But it could change; she knew nothing about that night. If she knew, she maybe would act just like Hardison did. He stopped himself when he almost glanced at the table where Hardison was sitting at his laptop again – he knew this would happen, but it didn't hurt any less because of it.

Just for a second he thought to leave it that way, to have someone who wouldn't feel uncomfortable near him, but at this point lies were absurd. "Do you know what I did…" fuck, he needed to take a break to finish the sentence. "…when I got out of Mass Gen?"

"Nate told me the basics. Why?"

"Do you know how many people I've killed?" This time he took a breath before speaking, and managed to say all of it at once.

"Damn. You were killing? I could never tell," she shook her head. "It's an awful, _awful_ thing. You should be ashamed of yourself." She shot him a dark look and smiled. "Can we skip this crap now, and concentrate on your staying alive?"

He just stared at her. Okay, maybe his thinking wasn't as bright as he thought; she kept smiling. He cleared the fog from his mind and thought about a more clear explanation, but she raised her hand.

"My son is a cop, Eliot. I know everything that happened. I know that Patrick's entire unit had your description and orders to get you out if they noticed you; not to arrest you," she paused, her gaze still fixed on him, but her voice was soft when she continued. "And Nate told me you did what you intended to do. I suggest you try and remember what that was. And if it was worth it."

"Hah!" the voice behind her stopped her next sentence; Parker had just appeared by the bed. "You're awake. Good morning. Good morning, George," she glanced at the plant and smiled.

He stared at her, trying not to search her posture to see if she was having trouble standing, he just looked at her face. Yep, it was worth it. Every damn step during the night was worth this smile, no matter it was sent to the plant and not to him.

When Parker looked at him again, she sighed and worry creased two vertical lines between her eyebrows. "You won't go psycho all over again, right?" She didn't wait for his response, she looked at Betsy. "Maybe you should drug him like in the hospital. I told Nate we should cuff him to the bed, but he didn't think it was necessary; not even when he almost killed Sophie."

He tried to take one deeper breath, but he failed miserably. The only thing he managed to do was to draw Betsy's full attention on himself. He clutched the blanket to stop shaking and fixed his glaze in neutral, feeling her eyes probing him.

"I can't walk, Parker," he said, trying to sound as pleasant as he could. "You should feel safe… as long as you're out of my reach. I don't even have a gun."

She frowned, tilting her head. "You're strange," she stated matter-of-factly. "I wanted to ask you something, but I'll wait 'till you start to sound normal again, okay?" Without another word, she simply turned around and went to Hardison. Who was, he noticed that just then, on his feet and alert while Parker was near him. He didn't dare to ask Betsy what he had done to Sophie, and when.

"And what was this?" Betsy asked eying him with disapproval. "The girl was worried. I bet she's worried more now. I don't want her upset just as much as I don't want you – she passed out last night, she's weak. In case you didn't notice, she was shot."

"I noticed," he whispered, wondering if the blanket would tear apart if he didn't release his grasp. _Finally one enemy defeated_. "I'm the one who shot her."

Much to his surprise, Betsy chuckled, and he raised his eyes to her. "You really know how to make your life interesting, don't you?" Her eyes were bemused. "Now I understand what Patrick told me when he came to see you-"

"Patrick was here? Why-"

"He said he never saw a group of people so cruel and relentless in saving each other's lives before, and that he was surprised any of you survived… well, the rest of you. Ruthless, that's the word he used."

He drew in a shaky breath. "I want to go to the hospit-" she put the mask on his face cutting off his words; he glared at her.

"Stop whining." Her eyes were smiling at him, and he dared not to be offended. "You're staying here. Now, you have two choices… either you pass out before I start to change your bandages, or during the process. I suggest the first option, for your sake."

He hissed in annoyance. After all shit he had passed through, she couldn't scare him with a little pain, nor she could divert his thoughts from the subject she didn't want him to ponder upon.

Well, he was wrong.

.

.

.

The gunshots returned when he wasn't able to control his thoughts, and he was aware that his plan to stay awake while they were sleeping had one big failure – he was too weak for experiments like that. He was forcing himself to stay awake for the bigger part of the morning, he barely stayed conscious through the changing of the bandages, and he couldn't find enough strength to impose order on his mind any more. He was drifting in and out, caught in the night in full clarity, too exhausted to pull himself out of the permanent horror.

Everything was mixed together, people dying, all four of them in Marco's Tavern, the Armenians and Villacorta, and all of them were screaming and dying, the noise too loud to hear anything except the painful thumping in his head. He overestimated his strength and he was paying for it with the last bits of his sanity. No one's words or whispers could stop it this time. He would usually wait for the oblivion of unconsciousness to free him from this swamp that held him in its sticky grasp, and it would be welcomed, but he was too afraid now.

He didn't remember attacking Sophie, it must have happened while he was out or delirious. If he slipped again, he'd do it again; only if he was awake he would be able to regain a little of the control he had left.

"Your hair still smells like blueberries and strawberries," a voice penetrated the screams. "I guess that juice had conditioning qualities, it had to be nutritious. Are you sleeping?"

At the first moment he didn't recognize the voice - he recognized his own brain-stopping-eyes-rolling reaction to Parker's impossible way of thinking, and it helped in staying immobile, just breathing, keeping his hands still.

The blurred shadow formed into Parker standing in front of the bed, and her smile helped. Men dying under the fire disappeared.

"Will you teach me to shoot?" she asked quietly.

He froze_. Fuck, no, Parker don't..._ "No." His voice gave way on that simple short word. He drew one sharp, ragged breath, clearing the images from his head. And not succeeding. He could clearly see her with the gun in her hand, the same pose she had when she aimed at him, but he wasn't there anymore, just shadows that opened fire from all around. He closed his eyes, trying to stop the vivid picture that drew her right into his previous horror. They were supposed to be protected from that, that was his job, to keep them away from nasty things, from the guys with guns… Guns attracted the fire, Parker. A man with a gun is a target, an unarmed woman isn't. He should say that, calmly, but his throat was clenched, his blood was still thumping in his head, and his hands started to shake again. He forced himself to open his eyes, trying to breathe slower and deeper.

Her expression changed; her eyes darkened and she hid her arms behind her back. "I didn't mean to upset you. I just thought it would be useful." She shifted from one leg to another, taking her weight off the wounded one.

"You didn't upset me," he said through the gritted teeth, trying to smile, trying to stop the thumping. _Useful, for god's sake_ – that was the result of all this shit? Shooting was _useful_?! He did all this to keep them away from it! "It's n-not useful, Parker. You shouldn't-" he stopped when his voice cracked finally, when it became too complicated to speak and breathe at the same time. _Calm down, idiot_.

But the beeping couldn't be controlled, that awful noise rose, and with every sound the fear in her eyes grew stronger. Fuck that shit, he couldn't stand that fear anymore.

He simply threw away the clamps of his fingers, and alarms wailed through the room and painfully through his head, and even when he shut his ears with both hands it didn't stop, it grew louder. Silhouettes gathered from all around, closing in on him, and he couldn't move. He was lowered down, on his back, in the corner, and they kept hovering over him, reaching with their hands, and he had to close his eyes to stop himself from clearing his way right through them.

_They are just worried, you don't have to run, it's just the noise_…. he kept repeating it until he felt the cold plastic of the oxygen mask on his face, and until noise disappeared in a dull darkness.

.

.

.

The first thing that he saw when he opened his eyes was Parker, standing in front of the bed.

_His life was really, really, a living hell_.

He slowly glanced around; all of them were sitting at the dining table, at a safe distance. Great, just great… he could bet that Sophie and Nate were delighted when they'd been woken by the sound of the flat line. He noticed they had moved the table as close to the kitchen that they could – that put several more meters between them and the insane killer. He wasn't surprised at all.

Parker waved her hand to attract his attention. "Gun." she said solemnly.

"Yes, Parker?" he sighed, trying to guess if this was maybe some sort of flashback or some shit like that.

"Shooting, bullets?" she said hopefully, and he bit his lip to stop something that might, maybe, sound like whining. His head started to hurt. Great.

"Yes, Parker?" he tried again. _Please, no thumping. Calm dawn. It's just Parker_.

"I just wanted to see if you're reacting to those words. Maybe, if I make a list of words that upset you, I might-"

"Words don't upset me, Parker. It's okay. I'm just…" he stopped. She waited. "Tired," he finished quietly.

"So, you're strange because you're tired?" Her face gleamed. "That's great. I'm tired too." and she turned and walked away.

God, he couldn't stand this anymore, just… couldn't. She was trying to act like the past few days didn't happen, and he was too weak to brace himself against it. The normality of her weirdness was reminding him of everything he would have to leave behind, and the more his head was clear, the more painful it was. It would be easier if he _wanted_ to leave… no, he _had _to.

He thought his control was crushing when he was out or delirious, and now he saw that he lost it completely when awake and able to think. He _knew_ that the alarms would howl when he removed the clamps, but he couldn't stop himself. The next time it might not be the alarms, it might be someone's neck.

He had to turn himself out of this, to stop listening to them, to see them, to notice their fear and withdrawal, and just think about how to run away from them all. He knew it would be something like this, but he didn't plan to be _here_ - helpless and pinned to the bed, without any possibility of escape.

If his luck held, they would be too uncomfortable to be near him more that they had to, and those days would pass faster than he thought.

He needed a phone.

.

.

.

"Can someone explain me what's going on in here?" Betsy asked quietly while they were watching Parker's exchange with Eliot, and Sophie looked at Nate. He was sitting with his legs on the table, swinging slowly in the chair, and he wasn't paying attention to Betsy's glare at his feet.

"Not… exactly," Nate shook his head. "It's too complicated."

"Oh, I think you didn't understand, Nate Ford." Betsy said softly. "I wasn't asking."

Sophie hid her smile when Nate's eyebrows jumped up.

"As far as I know, he did all this to save your lives. You, on your part, did all this to save his. You are all alive, saved and happily reunited, right?" she looked at him as if she was encouraging a kid, head slightly tilted. "So, if there's an explanation for everybody acting weird, tiptoeing, stuttering and whining, I have to know it. I have to know everything that might interact in his recovery."

"Yes, I guess you do," he finally sighed, glancing at the sofa where Hardison tried to occupy Parker with a new game. They couldn't hear them. "He quit on us before he left the hospital, and he repelled us; that was the conversation with Hardison that you saw. It was… tough and nasty. And we did the same thing to him during the night. That one was even worse."

"Why?"

"Our reasons… if half of his concentration was directed to us trying to find him, he would get killed. He needed all of it to finish the job. Sophie called him and told him we were leaving town, and that he was dead to us. If he thought we weren't near we would also have a better chance to get close to him unnoticed, and help him in time. He is… extremely hard to catch, trust me." Nate sighed again. "And his reasons… Patrick saw it first and told us; Eliot was preparing himself to do something unforgivable, and he was sure we would ditch him in disgust after we found out what he had done. Quitting before would spare us the trouble and guilt. Eliot also knew he didn't have much chance to make it through the night, and he didn't want us to feel guilty because of his death. Further, and I think the most important thing, he tried to make us believe he wasn't doing this for us. That way we wouldn't feel guilty because of all that death he unleashed that night because of us."

"That is…" Betsy cleared her throat. "…a lot of _your_ guilt circulating around."

"Yep," Nate said carefully. "A huge amount of our guilt."

"And don't forget that these are only the reasons we figured out," Sophie said when both of them went into thoughtful silence. "We can't know what else is going on his mind."

"Yes, I forgot the last one," Nate frowned. "He's afraid he can't control himself anymore, and that he'll kill us all. I told you what condition he had been in the last hour before we came here… he was breaking at the seams. I'm not surprised by his reasoning; a hitter who is unreliable and out of control is bad enough… but even worse, he thinks we'll need protection _from_ him. Running away from us is the only option that he could see. I had to trick him to drag him into the van."

"And I wondered why his stress levels are near explosion," Betsy sighed. "That's not good."

"We know," Nate murmured. "We are waiting for him to get together. There's a chance he'll deal with all of it. If he doesn't, I'll have to do something, and I rather wouldn't."

"For now, he is too weak to speak more than a few words, and he is drifting in and out of consciousness," Betsy said seriously. "He is physically not able to endure any conversation longer than three minutes and if you press him now you'll do more damage than you think. Wait. He can't go anywhere."

"We _are_ waiting, Betsy," Sophie said quietly. "We don't like it, but he needs time to see that things haven't changed." She bit her lip before she continued. "About that weakness… Is there any chance you can remove that heart monitor? It's driving him insane… he needs... no, he doesn't need one more thing that constantly reminds him he is out of function and dependent on someone else." She didn't want to tell her directly that Eliot needed a little control back, to be able to hide from them the things he wanted to hide. "I'm sure he wouldn't have freaked out a few minutes ago if there wasn't a sound that was telling everybody he's going… out of control." Damn, she said it nevertheless, but she needed her to understand.

"Not safe yet. I can now pretty accurately say he'll live, but it can still change in a second."

"Come with me." Sophie got up. "I'll go and talk with him, he needs to see that everything is normal."

"Normal? The kids are vibrating around him, scared and stuttering, they are absolutely clueless about what impact they make on him; he's too lost to completely re-collect himself and think straight. They are very successfully feeding everything he's constructed in his head, and it won't end well."

"But that _is_ normal, Betsy. He almost died. We can't interfere in their behavior, they have to act natural, no matter how weird or scared they seem… if he senses only for a second they are acting and pretending to be normal in front of him, it's over. We'll lose him, without any possibility of repair." She glanced at the two of them, sitting together and playing games. "Besides, he loves them. And they love him. I hope they'll melt that frozen place in which he's caught right now."

They went silent when they neared the bed. Eliot wasn't sleeping, he stared sightlessly in front of him. She didn't dare to imagine what he was thinking, but she didn't have to; his eyes looked haunted.

"Are you planning to die, Eliot Spencer?" Sophie smiled sitting on the bed, waiting for him to look at her. She surprised him and he almost smiled, and she could see in his eyes a few quick responses that would make her smile too… but then that short second ended, and his eyes became cautious again, as if he was trying to figure out what trap she was preparing with that question. It hurt to see that spark vanishing.

"I don't think so." He glanced at Betsy. "Why?"

"I hoped you'd sound a little more convincing. I'm trying to persuade Betsy to remove that awful beeping, but she said you need it. C'mon, work with me here."

He hesitated one moment, and she felt a pang; he was too tired for this. But he finally spoke. "I need a phone. Nate has my silver one here?"

She felt her back goes stiff, but she kept a light smile on her face. "Of course. Bored?"

"No, exhausted. I can't sleep with that constant sound echoing in my head." He darted an eyelash blink to Betsy. "With the phone, I can play games until I pass out. I heard from someone… that sleeping and resting are essential-"

"Not bad," Betsy smirked, stopping him right at the moment his voice started to waver. "But the blinking would look convincing if you were actually able to focus on the target, and not miss me by twelve inches. You've just charmed the hell out of the first drawer of the table. Okay." She turned around and turned machine off, and then took the clamps off his fingers. He watched her with something that looked almost like a smile, Sophie noticed, more in his eyes than on his face.

"I don't like it… and it's my call to turn it back on if I see it's necessary, okay?" Betsy shot him a glare, and went back to Nate.

Sophie was still studying that almost smile, but it vanished before she was able to conclude if it was just for Betsy.

"Thank you," he said politely. He was watching her as well, and she could guess what he was trying to see in her face. Instead of a response, she curled herself on the bed, hugging her knees, relaxed and smiling.

"I don't think we had a chance to thank you for what you have done," she said softly. His freezing was expected, she was sure that any reminder of that was painful right now… but the surprise in his eyes caught her unprepared. If he dared to say that that was his job, she just knew she would hit him.

He said nothing, his eyes were uncertain.

"I'm so glad it's over now, and we all can be at peace, and rest and recover, without fear and struggle. You know, when all of you were in that corridor…" she hesitated, thinking to finish the sentence with something else, but decided to continue. He deserved the truth. And he earned the right to be the only one to know it. "Eliot… the four of you are the only thing I have," she said with _her_ voice.

For a moment his eyes were defenseless and she could see all the pain and fear hidden behind the exhaustion, but then she did something that no grifter would do… she averted her eyes from reading further, giving him time to hide it again. She knew where she hit him, and she knew exactly what pain that caused.

Pressing him further now would be a mistake, so she uncurled herself slowly and stood up.

"Try to rest, the fighting is over," she whispered gently.

But he wasn't listening to her anymore, his eyes were lowered. She knew she lost him at the moment he slowly reached and took her hand, looking at the purple bruise around her wrist.

"And sometimes, the only way to stop fighting is to lay down your weapons and die," he whispered.

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Fuck, no… he shouldn't say that shit.

"Figuratively speaking, of course," he added with almost no pause, watching her calm thin smile, and a shadow of admonition in her eyes. Nothing in her face showed a sign of tension, but he was still holding her hand and he felt the tremor that ran through it. He scared her. He swallowed a curse, feeling the thumping in his head, knowing the beeping would be jumping by now. She had just removed the warning bell from the beast, and the others couldn't hear what they were saying. She was alone with him here. And she feared him.

"I could kill you now before they even noticed I moved," he said with effort, searching her eyes.

She tilted her head, and a little amused smile lit her eyes. "You say that like it's something new. You could always do that. But, do you want to?"

He thought for a second; the thumping in his head brought only a headache this time, not the urge to fight his way from here. Yet, he couldn't know if it would last and how long; the last time it took only sounds to throw him deep into madness, without any control. That uncertainty was driving him crazy, he couldn't be sure-.

"No," he said finally.

"Why do you sound so surprised?" she glanced at her hand. "You didn't want to kill me when this happened. You could. You had no idea who I was, I stopped you from disconnecting the IVS, and you froze before hitting me."

"I was probably trying to calculate the best-" he cut off his words and released her hand, letting her go. "Forget it. Sorry I scared you," he evened his voice and tried to smile.

He told that her he could kill her, and she just smiled… now he tried to smile and her eyes flickered with anger. Fuck, he was too dumb to try to figure her out… he never could. He had been trying to read her since he woke up, but her behavior was apparently normal – too normal. The only thing that he could see was that that normality wasn't natural, it was there with effort, he felt the tension under every word, every light smile. Most of all, he felt her cautiously probing him – and now he gave her a gold mine to ponder upon. He should know better than to speak with the grifter about all this, he revealed too much.

"You are an idiot, Eliot Spencer." A trace of that anger was in her voice, but the worry was clearer. And the fear was still there, she couldn't hide it.

"Yeah, I know. Everybody was telling me that." He desperately needed to close his eyes, but he didn't dare to… what? Let her out of his sight, in case she tried to… what? Damn, he _was_ a mess.

He half expected her to retreat now when she was free and able to leave, but she stayed and watched him. "Why do you need a phone?" she asked finally.

"To stop thinking," he whispered, too tired to make up something that would sound normal. There wasn't any point in lying to her. Hiding pieces of the truth was still important, but even that seemed insignificant anymore.

"Okay, I'll bring you the phone." She leaned over him and slowly removed the hair from his eyes, as if she expected that move would startle him. He knew she did it only to show him that she wasn't afraid of him. She was really trying. All of them were trying, he had to acknowledge that. He should make these days easier for them, stop snapping and scaring them. They were already too upset with this situation, and he was making it worse with his shit.

"Thank you," he said politely.

Be nice. He could do that. Maybe they would leave him alone. It was time to start allowing himself to think about all this mess.

And, of course, he had to think of someone who would be good and reliable enough to work with them.

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Hardison almost squeaked when he realized Betsy had removed beeping, and he tried to confront her with her own words about the need of instant revival; Betsy's eyebrows were raised to the point of connecting with her hair, but except that, she didn't react to the murmuring hacker who threatened to go to Google and check her decisions.

Nate knew she had years and years of practice with the half crazy families of her patients, and that this was nothing compared to that, but he still admired her stoicism.

"May I go to McRory's, and get drunk?" Hardison finished his hissing in utter defeat. He didn't wait for Nate's response, he went to the shelf and peeked at the bed. He returned with indignation in his eyes.

"Is he alive?" Betsy's voice was honey. "You better go back and check once more, anything could happen in the next ten seconds."

Nate was half sure that Hardison was thinking about it, and he hid his smile.

"You can make it faster if you get a long stick and poke him with it every half a minute," Betsy continued without mercy. "Or rope. Tie it to his leg and yank occasionally to see if he will move."

"I have a rope," Parker interjected watching them in turns, trying to figure out what the problem was.

"That's great, dear. I'll tell you if we need it."

"Come on, Parker, we have a game to finish," Hardison got up again, pulling the thief on her foot. Of course they took the long way around to the sofa, checking the bed first.

"Eliot might regret this," Nate said. "If they continue to stare at him every two minutes… even a completely normal person would lose his mind."

"No one here is nearly half normal, much less completely," she murmured watching Hardison making rainbow unicorns jump off cliffs on big screen. "What's his problem?"

"Scared."

"How can you work with someone who panics his ass out when under pressure? He almost passed out when I mentioned a needle. It's not wise to have a seriously ill man in the same room with someone who is unpredictable and unreliable when he sees blood."

"What's the greater accomplishment – to do something that scares you or to do something that doesn't scare you?" he smiled. "I'll tell you something that might... no, it's better he tells you himself." He turned in the chair. "Hardison! Come back a second."

Parker followed directly behind the hacker, and Sophie stopped preparing tea to lean on the kitchen counter. Hardison flinched visibly when he saw that attention.

"Ask her about the knife."

"Fuck, no," the hacker turned on his heel, but Nate caught his hand and stopped him. He had to admit one thing to Betsy; she erased the smirk and softened her face, seeing his visible discomfort.

"I knew that we might find him late, far away from any help or hospital," Hardison said after a few seconds of silence, his eyebrows furrowed. "Someone needed to know at least something about all that medical bullshit. I'm not happy about it, it was… horrible. The educational videos from John Hopkins were nasty, but nothing compared to the Youtube ones… those were made by amateurs, I'm afraid. But I learned everything I had to."

"And what" – Betsy suppressed a sigh – "what you have learned about thoracic surgery from amateur videos on the internet?" Her voice was filled with despair until the very end of sentence.

Hardison swallowed. "Everything I needed to _understand_ what was going on. In fact, one particular video showed me more than any educational. One student was explaining to his colleagues about the layers of the chest using pig ribs. It looks pretty much the same as a human; the skin is the same, the muscle layer, too, even the pleura. The parietal and visceral layers of-"

"Hardison, the knife."

"I was getting to that part," he darted an uncertain glance to Betsy. "We didn't know about the chest tube. And I knew about the tension hemothorax, and what it was doing to him. I was… I planned to stab him with the knife to let the blood out. And I don't know if I would kill him with that."

Betsy looked at him, but Nate said nothing. "You almost fainted when you saw the blood in the bag," she pointed out.

"I had no time for fainting then." His eyes remained uncertain. "Not that I didn't want to."

"For an untrained man, that sort of emergency medicine is almost… insane to try," she said carefully.

"I'm systematic. I learned not to go under the ribs to avoid nerves and blood vessels, I thought about the pressure needed to cut through the muscle, and the depth that blade had to go between the ribs to slice both the pleu-" he cut off when Sophie made an unintelligible sound and disappeared. "Hey! I was the one who was throwing his guts up, remember?!"

"No, you wouldn't kill him by doing that," Betsy said finally. "If it wasn't for the chest tube, only that could save him. Satisfied?"

"No. Just… relieved," he smiled and ran away.

Nate held his gaze on her.

"Sixty percent chance," she sighed. "But much more than the alternative."

Sophie brought them tea cups, and went to watch the game, and Nate waited until she sat with Parker and Hardison.

"Tell me about the Ebola and Marburg viruses, Betsy," he smiled.

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It would be damn easy to close his eyes and pretend everything was fine, but Hardison wasn't a fool. Well, most of the time. Acting like a fool and being a fool wasn't the same. This time he had mitigating circumstances that were putting his unease on sleep – in an awkward and tense situation, someone's behavior could easily have be misinterpreted.

Yesterday he wasn't interpreting anything, he was only freaking out and panicking and hoping that everything would be fine. God, he was his _friend_! Today, when Eliot woke up and the threat to his life was a little lesser, he didn't know what to think and what to expect. They were all lost and confused with this; he had never seen someone who barely lived and whose life was still in danger, and he didn't know what to expect. Google couldn't tell him what usual behavior was for a victim of… well, basically everything. He was oscillating between his expectations, based on his knowledge about Eliot, and the temptation that everything that didn't fit the prognosis was just a side effect of a near death experience.

As the day slowly moved forward, he dismissed all the soothing excuses, and let his worry search the subject. No matter how weak Eliot was, that shouldn't change his behavior. It could slow it down, or damp it a little, but the basics should have remained the same. He was waiting all day for him to growl and glare, and be pissed and annoyed – he had managed all that even when he had to whisper through the comms, the strength of his voice had nothing to do with it.

He never expected him to be _quiet_.

And it was getting worse with every hour that passed. Yep, there were dozens of possible reasons, and he counted them all, but every one of them was logical for a normal person, someone who would be shaken, shocked, insecure and scared by everything that happened. Not Eliot. Eliot should have been cursing and snapping for hours, pissed off because of everything, and angry at them for their watching over him.

Someone had stolen their Eliot and replaced him with a quiet, courtly alien with cautious eyes and hidden tentacles. That creature wasn't comfortable in his brain – _who would be_ – and his impersonality was showing stronger after every talk, every visit. Instead of getting better, getting more himself, he was receding into… nothing. He was less and less present and the distance he was putting between them was almost palpable.

Hardison remembered part of the conversation with Nate that he was listening to in Estrella, when Eliot said he quit… but that was right before he said he would break his arms and leg, and he dismissed it as a product of the shock… but now, when he thought about it, he wondered if there was more in those words than he could hear.

Asking Nate about it would have been wise, if he wasn't reluctant to disturb him further without a cause… there was a real possibility he was overreacting, and that Eliot was just too weak to give a damn about anything except lying still and resting.

Yet, every time he looked at him, he didn't see his friend, he saw an alien Cheshire cat who was slowly disappearing without any explanation, piece by piece, becoming invisible and quiet until nothing of it was left. Not even a smile.

He had to do something, to challenge that alien to see where the hell Eliot was inside that thing… and he had no idea how.

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The rain started after they ate, and the soft lights in the room were perfect for a lazy afternoon. The sound of the rain was soothing, they were dozing, reading, watching TV, and just quietly chatting, and everything would look completely normal if they weren't constantly stopping to go to the other end of the room, to check on Eliot.

Nate spent entire afternoon at the table going through all the data Hardison had accumulated on his laptop, but that was just sorting out and finishing everything. He kept an eye on everybody, though there wasn't any need for an intervention of any kind; Eliot wasn't talking. He slept for the most part of the day, and Betsy said that that was the best thing that he could do for now. Hardison, a little encouraged by her appreciation of his skills, tried at one point to draw any prognosis from her, but she just told him to Google the recovery time of a gunshot wound, plus severe Hypovolemic shock and bleeding out, to add that together and multiply by three, and then to ask her again.

She was talking about months, but Hardison sat, narrowed his eyes, and said he gave him two weeks to start walking again. Nate was giving him eight days, but he didn't contribute to their exchange.

They'd all slept a few hours during the day, and no one was tired. That was good because Betsy said that this night might be as hard as the last was, but at the same time, it made the day seem much longer than it really was.

The tension grew when Eliot woke up. Nate was right when he thought that removing the beeping would bring a new nuisance, but it seemed Eliot tolerated their constant visits pretty well. He wasn't conscious all the time, so he maybe didn't notice every one of them, but from his watching place Nate could see that he wasn't visibly upset with the rest.

They were the ones who were upset, even Sophie. Eliot answered their questions with short words, he didn't ask for anything, and he seemed completely absent.

Sophie gave him a phone, and that was it, he was gone. For hours, all they could get from him was a polite 'yes, thank you', and more often, 'no, thank you'.

When evening brought the fever and Betsy connected the heart monitor back up, even she started to look worried when he just said 'okay, thank you', and smiled.

Things were speeding up.

Nate sent Hardison to hack into the Department of Defense.


	35. Chapter 35

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Allowing himself to think about everything was a huge fucking mistake. It was too early, he had misjudged his strength.

It was easy when all the facts were blurred images, mixed and distorted, he could baffle himself a little further, but now, with a clear mind, following the trail of death that he left behind was terrifying. The tightening in his chest had nothing to do with the wound.

He couldn't even brace himself, much less to curl into a ball and crawl into some dark corner, to stay there for days until he stopped counting, and counting, and acknowledging all the faces, adding them to the final score.

He could force himself to stop, but he didn't. He never did.

He owed them that. He _had to_ remember them, every one.

He spent hours with outward smiles and inward screams, trying to lay relaxed while feeling like jumping up and tearing the bed into pieces. Being grateful for the pain was something that would surprise him, if he had strength to think about it – but the blurry eyes, immobility and weakness was a perfect cover for everything. Even Betsy couldn't see anything underneath it, and he could get rid of all the visitors only with short replies and with a few smiles. Even when he was too absent to actually hear their stupid questions, wrong answers, yes instead or no, or vice versa, were explainable. He managed to hide everything from them, all except the constant shaking of his hands.

Their covers, on the other hand, were starting to break through the day, and the relaxed-everything's-fine-just-rest masks were falling down, revealing their worry and anger and tension that would deeply upset him if he wasn't occupied with the people he killed. The people he loved were, for now, less important.

Two weeks. He needed two fucking weeks in a dark, small room, with no sounds, without anything in it, to settle all this in his head and in his heart… and he was captured here in the lit room with _people_.

Thank god, the fever blurred everything again when the endless hours turned into night, and he didn't have to pretend he was doing something with the phone, except staring at it blindly for hours, holding it just to hide the trembling.

The shredding machine in his head worked all night, successfully destroying any coherent thought. Even the most persistent ones were easier to disperse into incoherent words that didn't upset him, and he welcomed the fever, though it was tiresome and painful. The only thing he had to do was stay silent, which with the labored breathing wasn't hard, and try not to pass out. That was a little easier, because this time Betsy allowed cold compresses, and they were waking him up every time he would almost drift away. Only completely awake he was sure he wouldn't snap. He had no means to know if he would stop this time before killing Sophie, or someone else, again.

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Tonight Nate and Parker were sent to sleep, but Hardison wasn't allowed to be near Eliot unless they needed him. Sophie and Betsy didn't look disturbed because of the fever, they said it wasn't as high as it was the previous night. They didn't have to be alerted all the time, and Eliot was much calmer. He decided to trust them, and not panic every time he peeked at the bed and saw Eliot's restless attempts to free himself from whatever he thought was restricting him at that moment. If they said he was calmer, he _was_ calmer.

Hardison used the quiet of the night and dimmed lights to finish his work; he wasn't sure if it would be smarter to use level A or level B hazmat suits, and he searched for the specifications and chose colors. The orange ones were cool. That kept him occupied and far away from the domestic problems for awhile, and damn, it felt good to use his brain on something so clean and easy as planting the documents into the Department of Homeland security. Unfortunately, like everything funny, it ended too fast, bringing him back into the apartment.

His task was to bring coffee to Betsy and Sophie and to be near in case they needed him, so he did just that. He even occasionally tried to entertain them when they came to sit at the table in turns. He had no idea if it worked, but at least Betsy wasn't glaring at him nonstop anymore.

The alien life form in the bed was confusing him even more now, than when he was relatively cool headed during the day. Eliot didn't speak, he just occasionally replied to their questions when the fever was lower. Hardison figured out that Betsy was checking his consciousness with simple questions that demanded only a yes or no answer. When Sophie was asking them, she got only those answers, the shortest possible. When Betsy was asking, he replied with sentences. And he wasn't sleeping at all, although Betsy did everything besides drugging him to make him sleep. When Hardison was near the bed, no matter if Eliot was aware of reality, or deeply out of it, his tension grew visibly, the same way he reacted the first day.

When he noticed that at the moment Sophie went away from the bed, Eliot was slipping and relaxing, Hardison realized that _they_ were the problem here, not his condition or weakness. And for the first time during those days, he asked himself if his conversation with Eliot, when he told him he was leaving the team, and that they were dead weight, was completely made up, or if he had just convinced himself that Eliot said all that because he wanted them far away from danger.

Eliot's repeated words about quitting came into his mind again. It was possible that Eliot really thought better about all this, and realized that it was too much for him. After all, Hardison was the reason he was shot in the first place. And they were the reason for everything he had to do, which almost killed him, again. Not to mention that he had to fight them all, in the beginning, and play against their moves.

After all this, he thought, no, he prayed, for little peace, and for things to be like they used to be – they all needed that. This thought was simply… unbearable. It wasn't _fair_. They did everything to get him back, and stories like this one ought to have a happy ending. No fucking riding into the sunset, leaving the teary-eyed villagers… it wasn't allowed.

When Sophie, tired and upset, came to the table, he poured her another coffee. The grifter should have known much more about Eliot's behavior, it was impossible that she didn't read him. And if she knew, Nate knew too. They were, again, not telling them everything they needed to know. Nate and Sophie were just silently watching them all, not interfering in anything, especially Nate.

"This shit is much more complicated than it seems, isn't it?" he asked quietly. She flinched… she must have been really tired to be caught so unprepared.

"People are complicated, Hardison, that's nothing new." She looked at her coffee while speaking, but he could see the dark worry under her eyelashes.

"Wouldn't solving the problem be easier, if all people engaged in it knew what's really going on? I'm not starting with the trust issues again, I'm sure there is a reason for keeping things from us, but… maybe we should know."

"Not if giving trust to someone means betraying someone else's." She looked up, not a trace of a smile in her eyes. "Sometimes is better to not know too much. That makes our moves…cleaner, not burdened by things about the others that weren't ours to know."

And what could the two of them know about Eliot's behavior, and Parker and him didn't? When, precisely? The question gave him an answer at the same time – something important was said or done in those short minutes at Estrella, when the shooting started, when Nate asked him to leave only him and Sophie on the line with Eliot, and cut himself and Parker off. Damn, that _was_ a question of trust. Maybe it really wasn't for them to know – but at the same time, he felt that a clue to all of this just lay there.

"Let it go." She was watching him. She held his hand on the table and smiled. "And don't worry. You'll know what to do, if needed."

"Yeah, right," he sighed and got up. He was left to figure this shit out on his own, and he was lousy at that sort of thing. Only he could say that Eliot's strange behavior had something to do with _them_, and that they had a major problem knocking on the door.

He let her drink her coffee at peace and went to the bed. He had no idea what he had hoped for – any sign that he was wrong, perhaps.

The amount of strength Eliot was spending to keep himself awake during the entire night would be exhausting even for a completely healthy man, and Betsy was angry. All the shit was connected all over him again, including the mask. "You sound like Darth Vader with that mask," he said leaning on the table, in a casual, relaxed pose.

"I don't have… pointy ears." Eliot's reply was barely a sound through the plastic that distorted the words, but he didn't remove it like he was doing the whole day.

"I won't deign to respond to that," he said lightly.

"Yep. I thought so." he closed his eyes after saying that, a clear sign that conversation was over, and Hardison was again left without a clue… he wasn't able to talk much, too exhausted because of the fever, and this might mean just that. Or he just ditched him, again, like he was doing for hours.

Betsy ended his thinking about another attempt, waving him to leave, and he obeyed, deciding that tomorrow might be the time for starting pressing harder.

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Morning didn't bring sleep and it was a good thing, because they didn't stop coming near him. Eliot stayed awake floating in the fog, too tired to even be pissed off because he felt worse than the day before. When Betsy decided it was time for him to try to eat, he drank a few sips of meager soup just to get rid of her. Eating was the last thing on his mind.

Hardison emerged from the fog at one point, bringing him fucking crackers, and it took all of his control to listen to his explanation about the necessity of eating them; Betsy had obviously reported his lack of appetite to the committee at the dining table. The hacker tried to act normal, but he kept his distance, and Eliot was wondering what would happen if he said he would take it, how Hardison would perform the actual delivery of the package - throwing it on the bed, or putting it on the stick and pushing it closer. He was almost willing to try it, but he didn't see the point; it was better to just pretend that there was nothing unusual happening. He didn't want to scare him further so he just smiled and thanked him, politely explaining why he wouldn't eat now. The only result he got was that, besides scared, Hardison now looked pretty much pissed off. But he continued to come, over and over again, and it was driving him crazy, it was more and more difficult to hide that he was becoming pissed off too. At some point he realized that his being nice was useless; the more polite he was, the angrier the hacker became, so he just pretended to sleep.

Sophie was upset too. She was constantly visiting, for god's sake, and he barely managed to focus when she was near him. She wasn't saying anything, leaving him to guess what was on her mind, which was even worse than any grifting she could perform on him. He couldn't wait for her, for any of them, to go away, so he could stop trying to respond, and just drift away.

When they were near, he feared he might slip and do something, and they were near _all_ the time – he couldn't rest, he didn't dare to relax, and the more nervous he was becoming, the more his control was slipping away – damn, he felt half crazy, unable to stop that vicious circle.

The phone helped. When he was staring at it, or typing, they would stop by the shelf, just peek over it, and return to the others, so he finally had enough time to think without being constantly interrupted.

The damage he did to the team was beyond any repair, and he made a mental note to say that to Nate when he finally decided to come near him again; he didn't come close to the bed after their last talk about George, yesterday morning. It was a relief – one less to deal with.

Nate's visible withdrawal from the situation should have been a sign for the others, but the mixed signals were confusing him; he wasn't able to determine if Nate had told them about his quitting and leaving or not. Sometimes they'd been too complicated to read even in the simplest reactions, and this confusion was nothing new for him. And he had to admit to himself that he was very far away from normal thinking; at the moment it was difficult to connect two simple thoughts together. He concentrated harder, and concluded that Nate didn't tell them anything yet. If he did, they would be much more relaxed, knowing he would leave as soon he was able to stand up on his own – the amount of distress he was reading in their every move could only be explained by their ignorance. He would be distressed too if he was left to think he would have to work again with a person who he feared and felt uncomfortable with.

He had to tell Nate everything that he thought about this brilliant idea to bring him here again, even after he knew what exactly would happen with them, and how they would feel. He had no idea how that idiot could think they would deal with all this shit, with all the deaths. Nate should have taken him to any hospital and left, no matter the danger. Surviving was his job, after all.

That thought reminded him that it would be useful to look a little more recovered, to prepare Betsy for another round of negotiations about a transfer. He had to sleep. And rest. Fuck, he would even eat if it was necessary to loosen her up a bit.

This was the morning of the third day here – somehow, the parallels with hospital were inevitable – he counted that he had one more day of this hell before he succeeded in transferring to the hospital, and he had to use it wisely.

The team couldn't be saved, but he could make sure that nothing he did came here after him.

The phone helped with his search for a reliable hitter, too, but the results were discouraging. He could count twenty names with the appropriate skills without thinking. He could think of ten of them who would be willing to work in this field. Four of them were even honest, they would never screw the team they worked with. But, he couldn't find anyone who would know how to… handle them.

All four of them were unbearable. Any decent hitter would kill them all after just one job – hell, after the initial briefing – and that was a fact. Where the hell he was supposed to find someone who would keep Nate on a leash when he started to complicate plans, drunk or not… who would endure Sophie's drama, Parker's… everything, and Hardison's constant geekish babbling? Even if he found someone phlegmatic and calm – _to the level of being half zombie, one should really be brainless to live through their insanity_ - that person wouldn't _care_ about them. Wouldn't know what's the right response for every emergency and distress, for every one of them. An accumulation of wrong moves would lead to a disaster, very soon.

In the end, he didn't have even one name. And it was a dead end.

What now? They couldn't work without a hitter, for Christ's sake.

He was so lost in thought that Bonnano had to cough three times before he noticed he was standing before him.

"I remember that look," the cop smirked. "What devious thing is reeling on your mind now? Betsy said you should be resting, and if I tell her you're not…"

"Reasonable suspicion is not evidence," he said. "Try to prove to her I'm thinking about anything."

"Right, like she needs the evidence to act. By the way, she gave me three minutes."

Patrick looked completely exhausted, not like someone who had one day and one night of rest, his clothes looked like he had been sleeping in the park for two nights, and his belly abruptly went very cold. "It continued into the second night, right?" he asked. "It didn't stop. They are still killing each other."

"Nate said I can't disturb you with anything," Bonnano said carefully. "I can not confirm nor deny that information."

"How many dead?"

"Nate forbid me to tell you."

"Fuck you and him, Patrick, I have to know-" he stopped himself when a new thought jumped in. "Why are you here? Will you arrest me?"

Bonnano pushed few things aside on the table and sat on it. "No, I won't arrest you. There are no accusations on you for anything," he said watching him. "I have to ask myself why you, for a second, sounded so… hopeful?"

Why the hell he was surrounded by people who were so fucking smart? It was becoming tiresome.

He evened his face into plain tired. "They are all here. All the time. A quiet, dark cell would be welcomed. Have you ever spent more than half an hour with all of them at once?"

"Almost, and I don't want to repeat that experience." Patrick glanced at the table where everybody was pretending they were occupied with something, giving them privacy. "I brought you something that might help." He opened the lowest drawer on the table, and put something that he pulled out of his jacket into it. "I count you would know when it won't be too early to use this. If Betsy finds it, cover my ass, or I'll kill you."

"Don't be naïve. I'll immediately blame you to direct her wrath away from me."

"She also said you are a little apathetic and that I should try a motivational speech of some sort." He eyed him critically. "You do look like shit."

Much to his surprise that made him laugh, and he hid painful wincing. "If this is your idea of a motivational speech-"

"What? See? It worked," Patrick grinned. "So, when are you leaving?"

For a moment he thought that Patrick was using old techniques of interrogation, first relaxing the subject, then the real questions afterward, and it took a few seconds before he connected what he wanted to say. Of course the cop was studying his pause, so he covered it with taking the mask and inhaling.

"The third day," he sighed, suddenly tired to the bone. "No, the third day isn't the frontier I put before myself… I can stay in bed longer than that… if necessary."

"I see now why she said only three minutes." His eyes were serious now. "Don't do anything stupid this time."

"Define stupid."

"Oh, I don't think _you_'ll have problems with that definition."

"Patrick." Betsy's voice was sweet and gentle when she called him, and he waved a sign he was coming.

"Nothing stupid," he glared at him once more and turned to leave, but stopped after one step, hesitating. "Her son was in the hospital for two months last year, when we worked on a gang case," he said quietly. "We couldn't prove anything, but I was pretty sure Alejandro Rojas put him there. I thought you would like to know that."

He looked into his calm eyes. Bonnano understood much more that he showed – but some things were too much for his experience.

Eliot forced himself to smile. "Of course I would like to know that. Thank you." _No, he wouldn't_. But it didn't matter.

.

.

.

Nate and Parker went out with Bonnano, convincing him they were going only to the grocery store. Hardison was at his laptop, all communication was set at the lowest sound so Eliot couldn't figure out he was listening and directing them, and Sophie was twice as concentrated not to reveal that she had an earbud. She was concerned he would guess it by her posture, and Betsy's changing his bandages became useful as a distraction when he put down the phone and started to look around, noticing their long absence. Betsy didn't know where they were, but she recognized his growing tension as time passed, and successfully diverted his attention.

He was sitting up while Betsy worked on the bandages and Sophie came closer, leaning on the shelf to hide Hardison from his sight; the hacker was typing at work speed, not game speed, and he had the we-are-in-the-middle-of-a-complicated-con aura around him.

She thought Eliot would ask her about their absence and she prepared a calm smile when he looked at her, but it froze on her face when she realized he didn't see her. "Erm, Betsy…" she started just at the moment his eyelids fell closed and he swayed. Betsy caught him before he collapsed. Sophie quickly came closer.

"Go to his left side and hold him upright." Betsy was boiling, and that scared her even more. She quickly connected heart monitor back. The beeping was slow and regular this time. "Now, look directly at the monitor and track any changes, okay? Don't look anywhere else." Betsy was doing something while she was speaking, and it took all her control not to look to see what. She counted the seconds as she counted the heartbeat, calculating the rhythm, and before she came to twenty, Betsy was wrapping the bandage around his back.

"What have you done?" Sophie whispered though she knew he couldn't hear her; his head was lowered, he was completely out.

"The bleeding stopped during the night. I waited for a few more hours to be sure, but now I removed the chest tube, he doesn't need it anymore. It's a simple procedure." By the time she finished talking, she was done with the bandages, and she eased him back to lie down, putting the mask back on his face.

"And why are you so mad then?"

"He's doing exactly the same shit as he did in Mass Gen," she said dryly. "He's pushing himself beyond any reasonable limit, and he's exhausting himself further. And trust me, now is not the time for that."

"Morphine is still not an option?"

"It would lower his BP, I won't risk that. He's getting small doses of other analgesics through the IV, but it isn't enough. He should have been sleeping for 20 hours a day. He hasn't slept the last night, and this morning he pretended to sleep four times. If he continues with this he will continue to pass out, and he is too weak for that. The body shuts down when abused, he could slip into a coma the next time. The sleep heals, passing out doesn't."

Sophie stayed silent, listening via earbud to Nate whose conversation about the National Response Plan with the Assistant Secretary of Home Security Health Affairs was suddenly filled with unusual pauses as he listened to Betsy. Hardison was tapping his fingers on the table, she could hear that through the comm, and live.

Betsy was thinking, and she finally sighed and turned off the beeping, obviously deciding it would upset him further, and not be useful. She raised the upper part of the bed, lifting him into an almost sitting position, and Sophie pulled the blankets over his shoulders. He was cold to touch. And he looked so much younger when unconscious, she noticed, feeling an ache in her heart; it wasn't fair that only passing out could erase the worry and tension from his face.

Betsy was watching her, she could sense her hawk eyes on her every move.

"I will not disturb him, Betsy," she whispered lightly, touching his face with the back of her fingers; she could do that now without thinking about his reactions. It would be much easier if cuddling him, and everybody, could make all of this disappear.

Betsy said nothing.

Sophie silently went back to the table. He didn't have the finger clamps anymore. The mask was on his face only occasionally. He didn't have the chest tube, and with the bleeding stopped, there was no need for transfusions. And he needed only three seconds to disconnect the remaining IV tubes from his hands.

Time _wasn't_ on their side anymore.

"Nate, we need to talk," she said in the earbud.

"Of course, Madame Secretary," his smile warmed his voice. "I do agree that the Posse Comitatus Act does not cover these circumstances, and you are right – this _is_ a Joint Special Operations Command line of work. I couldn't sum it up better myself."

.

.

.

Eliot regained consciousness - and he wasn't sleeping, of course, he stared at the phone - when Nate and Parker returned an hour later, loaded down with bags full of groceries, quietly arguing about stealing apples from the market.

There was still a lot of work to do, so Nate prolonged the talk with Sophie; he knew what she would tell him. She wasn't pressing either, some things were understood even without being said.

The first sign of the impending storm was Parker, sitting innocently on the kitchen counter, with a bowl of cereal in her lap. She was listening to Sophie and Betsy talking about shoes, while Nate and Hardison were going through different Boston maps on the laptop, and nothing would look suspicious if Nate didn't hear a strangely loud crunching sound every time the thief grabbed into the bowl.

He glanced at her to check on her; she was frowning, but he couldn't tell if it was because she tried to understand what the fuss about shoes was, or something new was bothering her.

Hardison and Sophie were tense and angry, worried to the point of explosion, and it grew with every hour that passed, after their every visit, but Parker wasn't angry because of Eliot's polite withdrawal. She was becoming more silent and darker every time she sneaked to check on him. She wasn't trying to speak to him at all, though she heard everything he was saying to the others.

Nate got up to get more coffee when a piece of cereal jumped from her bowl when she reached into it, missing the laptop by an inch and falling into the popcorn on the table, and he used the opportunity to look at her bowl over her shoulder. _Fuck_. He went perfectly still, holding his breath, then carefully reached forward and slowly took the fork from her hand. She glared at him, but he smiled and gave her a spoon instead, taking the fork away.

He went back to the same position and from there he could see that the thief might be listening to the shoe conversation, but her eyes were surely going over their heads, to the bed on the other side.

"What's troubling you, Parker?" he asked gently; the shoe conversation abruptly stopped.

The thief started swinging her legs, and said nothing.

"Parker?"

She hissed and stabbed in the bowl, but left it on the counter beside her. "He is sexting with Tapia," she said quietly.

Hardison's coffee ended up on the laptop monitor, in one explosive burst. Nate looked at Sophie's aghast stare and sighed.

"Care to explain?"

"They've been texting like teenagers for almost an hour. And he smiled five times! Have you ever seen him smiling while texting with someone? Have you ever seen him texting before, by the way? It must be that sexting thing, there's no other explanation." She turned wide, worried eyes on him. "Tapia sent him a picture of some white building with palms, explaining something about the gambling procedures there, and Eliot replied with: 'Don't send this to anyone else; the registration plates on the parked cars are clearly visible, and you're supposed to be hiding. How you survived in the cartel world continues to astound me'. It's, like, four times longer than any sentences he said to us in two days!"

"How could you-" Nate stopped the sentence; she was the only one who could sneak up on Eliot even when he was well. "Look, he is working. He is using Tapia to confirm Villacorta's location, and he's probably getting more useful information from him."

"But Nate, he sounded nice the whole morning!" Parker lowered her voice to an upset whisper. "When he talks to us, he sounds just like he sounded while speaking to Villacorta on that terrace! We are now business to him, not a pleasure. He acts like we don't exist anymore, while he speaks he looks through us!"

"You have to give him more time, Parker. He isn't able to think completely clear yet, he is still confused and weak. It's only been one day since we were sure he would live… he can't-"

"I'm not talking about how strong his voice is, I'm talking about what's in it!" Parker hissed.

"She is right, I've been watching that same shit the entire day, and the better part of yesterday. And I don't like it at all," Hardison jumped in. "I'm worried about that phone, too - we all know what he did with it in the hospital. I'm thinking about putting a camera behind his shoulder, or put motion detectors around the bed, or-"

"Have you, people, actually heard of the means of communication that's called _talk_?" Betsy was looking at them like they all had a few spare heads. "You know, you might be very successful in your line of work, but I must say, you suck at common human relations. You are completely disabled in that field. You should have a car sticker, for god's sake!"

"You're right," Parker blinked. "We have to talk to him. Something normal, usual, that will result in his normal reply. If he snaps and growls at us, it would be normal, right?"

Nate buried his face in his hand. "Betsy, I don't think that's a good idea, you don't actually know her that well and I must-"

"It is," Parker climbed down from the counter. Her eyes were glowing again. "I can do it. Normal. Usual. "

Nate exchanged a look with Sophie; she was frozen, for a second unable to think of anything that would stop her. Even Hardison looked worried, watching the thief as she went to the bed with steady steps, repeating: _normal, usual_, under her breath.

"I don't understand why are you so upset… let the girl chat a little, she's cute and she'll relax him a bit," Betsy said when Parker sat on the bed and sweetly blinked, forcing Eliot to look at her.

"I'm glad you're awake," she said gently, but loud enough that they could hear what she was saying. "I remembered one thing I forgot to ask you yesterday. Do you, by any chance, remember what happened with Barclay's head, where that box ended up? Nate owes me some head shrinking."

.

.

.

Her face was only twenty inches away from his, and her eyes were soft and smiling. Eliot leaned back into the pillows as far as he could.

"What?" that was only thing he could say. His thoughts were too sluggish to catch at the right speed and process what she said.

"Barclay was a really, really bad, notorious guy, right? Just imagine the message for all the gangs and cartels if Nate managed to shrink his head into a little ball, and we hung it as a decoration on the front door of the apartment?"

"What?" he whispered again. This time, his mind _refused_ to process what he heard, and he was grateful for that.

"So, do you remember where it is? I can go and get it. We can even make a themed decoration with the head for different holidays… little Santa's cap, or a pumpkin, or pink lace for Valentine's Day…the possibilities are endless," she finished, smiled, and looked at him.

_What's wrong with y_- he bit his lip before the words escaped; those words belonged to some other time, not here. "I don't… I…I'm not sure what happened with it. Ask Nate."

"That's it? To ask Nate?" The smile faded from her face.

"I don't know where it is."

"And how did you cut it off?" she tried again.

"I _didn't_."

She opened her mouth, shut it, opened it again… but no sound came. He stared at her completely confused, not knowing what he was supposed to do or say.

"What's wrong, Parker?" he asked gently. He reached with his hand but she flinched at his movement and he stopped at once. He almost forgot.

"Everything is wrong," she whispered. It wasn't easy to hear those words coming from her. And her eyes filled with tears. "_You_ are wrong. You do the wrong things, you say the wrong things…" she poked him with a finger and he stood still, barely breathing. "You _feel_ wrong."

She jumped off the bed and marched away, leaving him clueless.

He stared blindly at the blanket for a few seconds and then forced his hand to continue typing. He waited for the second part of The Pissed One's objections to that dirty Mexican mob and their further actions. That wasn't a conversation that could wait.

.

.

.

Parker in tears painted everything around him a red hue, but Hardison had enough mind left to notice that Betsy was shaking her head, while Nate and Sophie didn't looked upset at all. He put those thoughts behind him, trying to calm down and not react… and he managed to control himself until he saw that Eliot just continued to play with the phone. He didn't even look at Parker when she left.

He took one more look at her eyes when she slumped on her chair, and that mixture of pain and helplessness pushed him over the edge. He slowly hoisted himself to his feet, closing the laptop with the loud click. Fuck this shit, this was too much.

He strode to the bed, feeling every muscle in his body going stiff with anger. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" his voice was a strained yell. "You just made her cry! What she has done to deserve that?"

That bastard typed five more letters and sent the message before he slowly raised his head to look at him over the phone.

"You're asking me to explain Parker's _emotional_ state?" he asked quietly. "What's wrong with _you_?"

Hardison just stared at him. Again that quiet voice and calm look in his eyes; he was mocking them all, for god's sake, it was unnatural. "You behave like complete asshole since you've opened your eyes, but okay, I could live with that – but when Parker's in question, I draw the line there! Hurt her again and I'll-"

"You'll what, Hardison?" he glanced around. "You'll try to find something that would make _this_ worse? Good luck with that."

"As far as I'm concerned, you can act like a damsel in distress as much as you wish, I'm willing to wait for it to pass. Sooner or later you'll get it together. The thing I don't want to see is Parker being afraid to come to talk to you!"

"Well, it's a little late for that _now_, don't ya think?" his voice was bitter now, and the calmness was starting to crack. "I didn't ask her to come. Can't remember that I asked you either. Just go away and leave me alone. I'm busy."

"You're busy!" he choked an angry bark. "You know, I told Nate I'll wait for you to be on your feet again before I knock you out for shooting her, but now I think I won't be able to wait that long! You're fucking busy! Are you so busy that you can't notice what are you doing to her, to all of us?"

"I was wondering when that subject would show up," he bared his teeth in an imitation of a smile. "Tell me, what _exactly_ is bothering you about that?"

Now was his turn to just stare at him. If he didn't know what was bothering about shooting a friend, maybe this was screwed up beyond any repair. "You don't get it, do you?" he hissed.

"If that question means am I sorry I shot her, the answer is no. I'm not sorry, I am…" he hesitated, and changed his sentence. "I'm not sorry that I shot her. And I would do it again, without a second thought… just like I did the first time..." He stopped to take the mask and put it on his face for a second, taking one deep breath before taking it off again. "I knew what I was doing, I calculated the pluses and minuses of it, and I _decided_. I never regret my decisions, Hardison. Some of them ain't easy, and I pay for them later, but I never _regret_ them." He smiled again, the empty, sardonic shadow of his real smile. "You don't have to wait for me to get up. If it would mean you'll stop coming here, be my guest, give me your best shot. It would be a real relief, trust me."

Hardison stared at that smile; he had never heard this bitterness in his voice before. "For what, exactly, are you punishing us?" he asked, his voice suddenly tired. He didn't feel anger anymore, just a huge feeling of defeat. This was useless.

"What?" The surprise in his eyes couldn't be acted, the word escaped without any edges in it.

"There must be a reason for pushing us away," he explained slowly, then swallowed before continuing. "I know you blame me for getting shot, and it's normal to blame us all for this mess you're in… and for all the things you were forced to do to save us." He took one deep breath before continuing. "I just want to know if this is something that will disappear with time, or if you won't be able to get over it?"

The silence after his words was cut off by a strange crunching sound from the table, and he turned his head to them; Betsy was holding the bowl of popcorn and she just put a fistful of it in her mouth. Her eyes were strangely bright.

When he turned to Eliot again, he was still looking at him as if he didn't say anything after his question.

His expression was studiously neutral. "Why should I blame you for getting shot?" This time, his voice came out with effort, he forced the words to come out.

"I forgot the cameras in the warehouse."

He blinked. "What cameras?" he whispered.

"You went back to get them, remember?" Hardison eyed him, suddenly worried. "Are you okay? What's-"

"I went back because I saw the men following us, and went to check them, I don't remember what excuse I used…" Eliot stopped, his eyes lowered to the blanket. "I wasn't _forced_ to do anything, you moron… my decisions had nothing…" he whispered again but stopped, and Hardison quickly came closer and put the mask in his hand.

He had no idea what was happening, but Eliot looked stunned; not stunned as if his mind was blank, stunned like he was overwhelmed with too many things at the same time. Maybe he shouldn't face him with all that punishing shit at once, he should wait for him to get a little better. But he couldn't forget the total surprise in his eyes when he said that; if he wasn't blaming them for all this, what the hell was really going on in there? He looked at him, feeling completely lost, noticing exactly the same look in his eyes.

The only thing he knew for certain was that he needed to continue with this. This was a rare opportunity to talk with him, really talk.

"I need those answers, Eliot," he said seriously. "I can wait for them as long as you need, but-" he stopped when he shook his head, taking the mask off.

"I'm not punishing you for anything," he had regained his voice back, it wasn't the whisper anymore. "And I certainly don't _blame_ you for anything." And that voice was soft and even _again_.

"Nope, don't do that shit again," Hardison said watching him disappearing once more in front of his eyes. If he closed up now, for whatever reason, he wouldn't be able to drag him back. Fuck, he had to _yell _to get the normal response.

"I'm not doing anything," Eliot said slowly. He rubbed his eyes with a tired, careful move, and his mouth curved into thin, flat smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I've told you the answers, right? Now, if there's something else-"

Hardison hissed in annoyance. "Stop looking through me, I need you to talk-"

"-you need to ask, we can do it later. I have to think, Hardison."

"Eliot, stop it!" he almost yelled again, but it resulted just in another absent smile and further shutting down.

"And I have to reply to messages," Eliot continued in an undisturbed explanatory tone as if he didn't say anything. "I've told you I'm busy."

Hardison took a long breath and decided in a second; Eliot was still holding the phone in his right hand and he smacked it, sending the pone flying over the bed and into the table. He was ready to get punched in a second, he was ready for the anger and the continuation of the quarrel, anything just to stop the spiral into blatant emptiness… but nothing prepared him for the _fear_ in his eyes. Eliot drew one long breath, staying completely still while a flicker of anger flew over his eyes in one moment. In another second it was replaced with fear. Hardison forgot to take a step back, staring into his eyes.

"Move away," Eliot whispered, carefully moving both arms, placing them over the bandages. He wasn't looking at him, he stared somewhere behind him. "Please, just go away. We'll talk later."

"Eliot…"

"No," he shook his head. "Later."

He sighed, picked up the phone and put it on the bed near him.

"Thank you."

"Do you know you've said 'thank you' nearly twenty times since you woke up?"

"Thirty seven," Parker's voice trailed in from the table.

Eliot just shook his head again. No response. And that horrible fear was still coloring his eyes. Hardison turned around and went away, passing beside them at the table, leaving the apartment. He carefully closed the door behind him, resisting the urge to slam them with all the strength he had.

He desperately needed something that would clear this shit out. And he needed a drink.

.

.

.

Eliot thought about the ways that could make this situation more complicated than it already was, and he came up with only Villacorta's moving in with his tooth brush. Or maybe, don Lazzara. No, both of them together. That would add a nice touch to all this shit.

It took almost five minutes until he was able to relax his arms enough to lower them down on the blanket and to take the phone. They were still shaking badly. In spite of a pounding headache, he was pretty satisfied with leaving Hardison alive, though he wasn't sure what would happen in the first second. Only when Hardison left did he manage to analyze his feelings – it wasn't rage, thank god, it was annoyance, not so different from his usual reactions on the hacker's stupid moves. And he didn't _want_ to kill him in the moment he threw his phone, he just wanted to growl and kick his butt with his leg – his position was perfect for a round kick. If he was able to support his weight with his arms, which he wasn't.

His decision to avoid sleeping when they were near and unprotected now seemed as a bad idea. He could barely start thinking about all these new details without getting completely lost. What fucking blaming them, for what? He rubbed his eyes trying to concentrate. Why the hell he should blame someone else for _his_ decisions? That concept was totally strange to him.

Hardison said that he was pushing _them_ away from him – another thing that sent a wave of pain through his skull when he started to decipher what that meant. If they thought he was mad at them, for god knows what stupid reason they'd made up for that, that would mess up all his conclusions about _their_ behavior. Now he had a few more things to calculate into their moves, and it was already too fucked up to understand it. _Great, he needed more of confusing shit, really_.

He sent two messages to The Pissed One before he gathered enough courage to think about the possibility that their behavior was strange _only_ because they thought he was strange and mad at them… but he didn't let that thought take root. He didn't dare let it stay too long… not without any further evidence.

Before he continued to think in that direction, he had to see what the hell they were doing, carefully hiding it from him. He checked the committee at the table; Sophie and Betsy were talking to Parker – one of Betsy's shoe was on the table and they were pointing to the parts as if they were trying to explain the functioning of it. Nate's shoes were on the table too, but Sophie moved his legs away – he was rocking in the chair, staring directly at the bed with an unreadable half-smile that made him nervous. He never liked that particular smile.

He averted his eyes from Nate and leaned deeper into the pillows. If he didn't kill the next idiot who came to disturb him, maybe he would allow himself to sleep. But not now, he had work to do. He checked the messages and then went through the impossibly complicated menus of Hardison's phone, which he cloned when the hacker came near the bed.

Still feeling the steady gaze that never left his every move.

.

.

.

The short glance that Nate and Sophie exchanged while he was passing by the table reminded Hardison of their knowing more about this shit.

He passed through the bar without stopping to drink something, and went straight to Lucille, parked behind the building. He had to see what they knew – the time for paying attention to the trust issues was long gone.

It took him almost half an hour to dig up the remains of the voice tapes from Estrella; he was lucky that nothing was done on that computer after they'd left the corridor and entered the van, and nothing was written over them. He quickly searched back to the moment when Nate asked him to cut himself off, but just to be sure, he went a minute before that, when they went into that office by the stairs. Yes, Eliot definitely said he was quitting, the first thing on the list, finishing with breaking of Nate's arms if he tried to touch him or come closer. But why the hell did he try to stop him from getting out of there, quitting or not? That didn't make any sense – though, he was delirious and completely lost, that was why he ignored it at the first place, while he was listening to it.

Yet, it wasn't the first statement of a similar sort, he remembered. The last phone call with Eliot was revealing a lot, too, and they were all listening to it in Lucille. From this perspective, Eliot's asking Nate not to tell them what he had done, and to keep them under the assumption that he died somewhere else, not connected to the team, told him that Eliot thought they wouldn't be able to deal with his doings, and that he died while doing that for them. But, he wasn't dead, he was with them again, though he tried to stop Nate from taking him out of that office… and no matter how deep in shock he was, he had to know that leaving him there would be a death sentence. Damn. As the pieces slowly started to fall into the right places, Hardison was less and less eager to actually listen to the part that would explain everything.

Maybe Sophie was right, and some things were not for everybody to know. The two of them knew it, and they didn't seem frightened by the situation, they were just worried, and it should show him that all this shit could end up with a happy end after all. They would act and do something if crisis was about to explode, right?

Or they gave up, said one tiny scared voice inside his head, because they knew there was no use fighting already lost battles. Nate was out of everything connected to Eliot for two days.

Hardison sighed, pissed because thinking that should calm his fears down ended with a much worse fear than he expected.

Before he could change his mind, he played the entire conversation from their entering the office, all the lines. Clear voices and the sounds of shooting brought him back into those stressful fifteen minutes of pure fear, and his heart was already thumping in his throat when he came to the part when Nate cut them off.

Yep, he shouldn't listen to it.

Eliot's voice was strangely flat when he talked about the dead in the corridor: flat but full of despair that was leaking in his every word. Hardison's heart sank. He was too busy to actually acknowledge all the dots as people, people who died in that shooting. But Eliot kept track all the time. All those people died because he started the fight, and he knew it. He fucking _felt_ it, and that was tearing him apart.

It got even worse when he continued about Marco's Tavern, Rojas and the Mexicans that died there, and something clenched in Hardison's gut when he finally realized the whole burden that laid on his back. It wasn't just an effect of the shock… it was that whole night, all the dead people, that crushed on him at the end and he didn't want to, he couldn't, continue with all that torment, and giving up and dying was the easiest escape from it.

"_Let me go, Nate. Everything I touch dies. I will kill you all_."

Hardison let go of a breath he didn't recall holding. He listened to the long silence after those words, completely understanding why even Nate couldn't say anything to _this_.

He buried his face in his hands, feeling his mind horribly empty of every coherent thought, he felt only the need to, to… fuck, that whisper was nightmare material. Torn apart, defeated, and so fucking _scared_.

_Oh, Sophie, you were so right. _He shouldn't know all this. What use was it that he now knew what caused that fear in Eliot's eyes when he hit his phone? What was the use of knowing why he refused to sleep when they were near, why he was tormented every time they came within his reach, trying to hold himself together and not falling apart and killing them? Why he was so desperately trying to control himself and put distance between them… and finally, why he was just waiting for the opportunity to leave?

He was a fool when he thought he blamed them for this shit; nope, Eliot Spencer wouldn't think that for a second. He was cursed with the deadly ability to kill, and at the same time to not be able to diminish that act. He knew exactly what he had done, knew and felt all the consequences. Full responsibility, or nothing. He even told him just that, when he spoke about shooting Parker; his decisions. He was paying for them, but he wasn't regretting them. Eliot would rather think that they blamed _him_ for all that death, not vice versa.

He had no idea how long he had been sitting in the dark van, lost in the battle of pain and guilt. Yep, maybe Eliot wasn't blaming them, but it surely didn't mean they couldn't blame themselves. There wasn't any way to repay what he had done for them – as always, when words were empty and insufficient, nothing would be said.

He wiped his eyes and pressed both palms to his temples; he had to get it together and return to the apartment, and he dreaded it, knowing he was helpless, that there was nothing he could do to solve it. To help. Demons were very fastidious; the stronger the victim, the stronger the demon. He couldn't quite imagine how one could beat entire horde of demons, waiting in line, but he knew only one person who would, maybe, be able to do it.

He searched through the memory of the last days, trying to find any sign that would tell him Eliot was fighting already, but he couldn't tell – all he saw was that damn retreat from everything. It might be too early to expect a fight from a half dead man, but now he knew what he would look for when he got back.

And maybe he couldn't help, but he surely could reduce the little things, give him time to concentrate on real problems. All that shit about the fear that he would kill them had to go… if that was a real danger, they would have been dead ten times over in those days. Who was blaming whom, and who was ditching whom, too – stupid little misunderstandings that he figured were only hindering factors, they were drawing his attention away from dealing with the bigger ones.

If anyone could go through this and remain sane, that was Eliot. He had to have trust in him.

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Nothing changed when he returned to the apartment. They were all still sitting, Eliot was busy with the phone, and only the new thing was a burning pain in his gut and a lump in his throat that he couldn't get rid of.

The table acknowledged his return with glances, except Nate. He didn't look at him, he was playing solitaire on his laptop.

"I'll need that," he said standing by the table, and Nate just turned the laptop to him, eying him with a dry smile.

"Be my guest," he said conversationally, but it couldn't erase the penetrating concentration in his eyes. He was reading him like an open book, there was no point in hiding anything.

Then he realized, finally… Nate wasn't worried about the little things, he knew they would deal with it… he was waiting in the background, waiting for the bigger demons to show up. He knew them, oh hell, he knew them well. That thought was strangely comforting, and he was almost able to smile.

"Betsy, he has to sleep, right?" Hardison asked the nurse while going to pick up laptop cables.

"Desperately. Why?"

"Because he obviously isn't tired _enough,_" he smirked, took the laptop and went to the bed.

The alien was sitting comfortably in Eliot's head again, he saw that dreadful calmness when he raised his eyes to look at him. He plugged in the laptop, going around the bed, noticing him stiffing when he went behind him and he was tempted to continue with that, to increase his unease to the point he would have to admit that even totally nervous he wouldn't kill him, but Eliot was too weak for that.

He returned in front of him and opened the laptop. "Now, move your lazy ass to the right," he said, taking off his shoes.

The calmness was destroyed in a second. "What are you do-" his eyes were instantly alert, but Hardison didn't came here to negotiate. He grinned and sat in the bed beside him, resting his back on the pillows.

"You can move over to make room, or you can snuggle, your choice," he grinned when Eliot withdrew as far from him as he could, with a hissed curse. His arms were again over the bandages and the tension that radiated from him was stronger than a wall between them.

Hardison started typing, listening to his breathing, quick, shallow, controlled breaths that were on the edge of hyperventilation. It wasn't that Eliot didn't have anything to say, he couldn't, too occupied with control and fear. _Perfect_. Without a word, he put the mask between them. "Now, you're obviously bored, and playing games on the phone is useless. I was thinking about a Star Wars marathon, to finally define all differences between Star Trek, but since we have been separated for the last few days, a short briefing would be much cleverer."

He placed the laptop in his lap, turning it slightly so Eliot could see it. "May I present you the blueprints of Massachusetts General? I can explain in detail everything that it took to find them, all the versions of it, and connect them into the one that was the most relevant, but I don't want to risk you walking out of here, so we shall agree, simply, that it required fucking brilliance to get them, okay?" he sneaked a sideways glance at him. "Actual looking at the screen would be a useful contribution on your part."

"This is not a good time, Hardison." The anguish leaked into his leveled voice, through gritted teeth. He kept his gaze in front of him.

"It is. You're not sleeping and resting, so we can do something useful instead. This is a detailed display of the apartment on Blossom Street, with the view to your window. I thought about buying a telescope at one point. Did Betsy tell you that you woke up right at the moment I was placing the camera in your room, and that I had to crawl under the bed to hide? She was a diversion, I sneaked out on all fours… poor Eric was stunned."

Now Eliot looked at him… not at the screen, not sightlessly in front of him, he turned his head.

"Yep, I know what you are thinking now… what a wasted chance to stop that hospital hide and seek at a very beginning, right?"

"I woke up because a zombie was staring at me." His voice was still restrained, but at least he answered. "Interesting… message."

"I wasn't staring, I was checking your readings. Where did you come up with zombies?" Hardison frowned, thinking. "Maybe I'll need to reconsider my idea to make you watch The Walking Dead. It's a story about a guy who gets shot and ends up in hospital, and when he wakes up he finds himself in a zombie apocalypse, the whole hospital full of zombies…" he glanced at his eyes, the message was clear. "No? Yep, I thought so. Okay, no zombies," he sighed and pressed few more keys, then remembered something. "But I wasn't the first visit – do you know what I have found duct taped under your bed? Your kitchen knives. Parker was first."

"In fact, Parker was the second," Sophie exclaimed from the kitchen. "Do you want some tea?"

"That would be great, thank you," Hardison said.

"I _do_ remember that I strictly forbid any visits." Nate's murmuring was barely a sound.

The two new voices messed up the first signs of his relaxation, Hardison noticed, he was tensed again, looking at the table as if he expected they would start to gather all around them.

"Sophie, don't hurry with that tea, we'll first do this, okay?"

She got the message and just nodded, not speaking again, but Parker was never good at reading unsaid things. She came to the bed with a bowl of popcorn, looking at them with a clear frown. "I still didn't forgive you for removing them," she murmured. "He might have needed them at some point, and what then?"

Eliot didn't visibly react to her approaching, he just lowered his eyes to the blanket. Hardison quickly checked his breathing – it was little slower, but the tension was still present in his every muscle. He couldn't say if he was retreating again and this silence wasn't a good sign at all. If he refused to talk and participate, there would be almost nothing to do to make him return again. He stayed silent, not sure what to say for a moment, when he noticed that Eliot wasn't simply looking into the blanket… he was burning the holes in it.

"The second day in the hospital." Eliot's voice was hoarse and with a very vicious edge when he slowly raised his eyes from the blanket. "Can someone, please explain to me how my knives… came to be at the hospital from the apartment that was occupied with Chileans… who were still waiting for you to come?"

Uh –oh.

Sophie quickly pointed at Parker, at the same time that Hardison spoke. "She did it."

Parker stopped in the middle of the step and swallowed the popcorn, blinking. "What? We needed the stuff. That's what I do. Nobody noticed me."

Hardison hid the smile; this was the first time Eliot spoke to all of them and asked something, for three days he was just replying to their questions. There was a slight change in the kind of Eliot's tension… he was pretty sure he wasn't now thinking about the possibility that he could snap and kill them, he was simply… mad. A man could count on Parker to set the things right.

"You just don't do things like that alone, Parker!" It was still a whisper, but it had a lot of snarl in it.

"I did," she shrugged and pushed the bowl into Eliot – he had to unclench his grip on the bandages to catch the bowl, and Hardison realized he had an ally who knew very well what she was doing.

Parker stepped onto the bed, and stood for a second looking down on them. "Cute," she smiled and walked between the two of them, carefully. She sat on the head rest behind them, placing her feet on the pillows between their shoulders.

Eliot put the mask on his face. Hardison cleared his throat, suddenly not so certain about her decisions. It was one thing to have him near, with a laptop, but someone behind him, and above him, must have been unbearable for his fragile control. His knuckles were completely white, and bowl was in danger of breaking at any second.

"What… what is the static of this bed, Hardison?" Eliot asked quietly, and Hardison cursed. The bed was on wheels, and they were all at one end of it, with Parker as ballast on the rearmost end.

"Parker, don't make any sudden moves. We should be okay if we just…sit."

A green sock slowly reached forward between their shoulders and pressed the screen. "There. You have a mistake in the blueprints – that corridor ends with a storage room, it has no entrance to the stairs." Hardison watched the stopping of Eliot's breathing when green thing moved just few inches from his face; one muscle in his jaw was tilting. Parker obviously noticed that too, because she giggled and waved with her toes. "Don't worry, I won't tickle you… yet."

Eliot's response was a muffled hiss.

"Let's don't do anything that can turn us over, okay?" Hardison elbowed her other foot; it was enough for now.

She carefully bent forward and took the bowl. "Okay, you're right. Betsy would bitch at us for hours." That caused them _all_ to flinch and glance cautiously to the table.

"It's a good thing I was shot, and not poisoned or irradiated." Eliot's interjection sounded strange, said casually, in a strange discrepancy with a posture that was still stiff. "How would you crawl out of the room in hazmat suit?"

Hardison froze and his fingers on the keyboard stopped for a second. He glanced at Eliot. Of course he was looking at his fingers.

"What if's are useless." He cleared his throat again.

"I prefer orange ones," Eliot murmured, looking at the screen with interest. Hardison decided to ignore that interjection – it was safer than starting to think about what the chances were, what a coincidence it was for Eliot to start talking about orange hazmat suits so shortly after…

"Have you ever wondered what happened to your knife holster?" he asked sweetly, and this time two men flinched. He smirked at Nate and turned to Eliot who was eying him cautiously.

"We'll come to that point eventually. Before that, here is a short report from the first day, before you woke up. Parker, jump in at any point…figuratively, not literally, please."

Yep, this was going to work, he promised himself, smiling as he typed, explaining the position of the cameras. Just as long like Parker didn't try to force feed Eliot with the popcorn, as long they didn't end up on the floor squashed into jelly by the monster bed… they were going to live through this shit. This time, together.


	36. Chapter 36

**I forgot to say a few words, so I'm editing this.**

**I want to point out that this story wouldn't be here if there wasn't my Beta, trappercreekd, who can almost be a co-author – she put so much time into this, and I shall always be grateful for her support.**

**And I want to thank you, again :D YOUR support was something that's rarely seen, indeed. I'm thankful for all reviews and messages, and all your thoughts and requests, even ideas are noted.**

**I'm planning to continue with this – not sure when, I have to rest from this – but I don't think I can let them just hanging like this. Though, no more monster fics, I simply CAN'T do this again. I'll write shorter fics, but it'll be plenty of them :D**

**I'll continue to write them in Boston for awhile, and then see how to move them to Portland, to catch up with the Season five ( and Coddington, of course :D) **

**I've spent my five years reserve of drama and angst, so next stories will be much lighter – deal with it. :D**

**The Occam's razor Job will be the first in the "Texas Mountain Laurel Series" – fics that don't belong in the timeline won't have that name in description.**

**See you soon, and thank you :D**

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"When they are planning to stop?" Betsy asked after the second hour passed, and Hardison showed no sign of slowing down. He was in the middle of a monologue about the hours and hours of his research on the Chileans, and he repeated every step of it.

"Irresistible forces don't get tired," Sophie smiled. She noticed that Hardison haven't left the hospital yet, and when he was near Eliot's leaving, he would turn around and find something that was left unexplained in previous days. She noticed it twice, then started to pay attention, and soon figured out that Hardison was pretty correctly reading Eliot's reactions. He was getting silent every time they were near that border, and his replies were shorter. She knew that night, and his doings, wouldn't be mentioned in this conversation.

After one hour, Parker got tired so Hardison let her have his place, pulling a chair near the bed, next to pillows. She curled herself into a ball, and she was pressing the keys on the laptop while he was continuing his explaining.

She went to take them tea fifteen minutes ago, to check how Eliot was doing under the siege, but he barely had strength to raise his head to look at her. He was completely dumb already, and he stopped to yank Hardison's chains with neutrally formulated remarks about the details of their doings that they so carefully hid from him. After the first one, about the hazmat suits, a little smile appeared on Nate's face, and it hadn't left since then.

"That kid is cleverer than I thought," Betsy continued. "He is sorting things out, and at the same time killing him, slowly. I give Eliot ten more minutes before he passes out. I must say this isn't the way I would choose to put someone to sleep."

"Let him be, Betsy, Nate said quietly. "If he wasn't doing it, we would just find an empty bed in few days."

"You're sure it would be a bad thing for Eliot?" her question was light, but Sophie had learned that Betsy never spoke lightly.

"For three days, you have been analyzing if we are good enough to take care of him." Nate turned to her, he too knew she was serious, and testing again. "What's the verdict?"

"When tonight passes, I'll decide, according to that, if I should go home tomorrow or stay longer." She avoided the answer with a smile. "He won't need 24/7 care anymore, and one visit a day would be enough."

"I can answer your question," Sophie smiled. "We all have found something important in this… team. For all of us, this is an anchor that keeps us on track. We all _need_ it. He needs it now more than anything, that can help him get through this. If he leaves, he will be dead in two weeks. Our seas are different. Some of them are stormier than others, without the anchor they can't be survived."

"I see," Betsy sighed. "But I also see you have unreal expectations – he isn't going anywhere for a long time."

"Define long," Nate said.

"Weeks. He is spent, Nate, and he will soon figure it out. He simply won't be able to do _anything_. No, let me rephrase that… he will collect all his strength and do everything he wants – once. He'll try to stand, and succeed, just to find out that he has to recover from that for two days. He'll sit in the chair for fifteen minutes, and after that sleep ten hours to recover from it. His condition has nothing to do with his will, and you'll have huge problems when it hits him."

"I see Star Trek marathons in near future," Nate rubbed his forehead.

"I suggest a good rehabilitation center. It will speed up his recovery."

Nate darted a dark look at her. "Out of question," he said shortly.

She smiled, and Sophie knew that Nate gave her the answer to her doubts without noticing it. That woman was a better grifter than any professional.

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Eliot remembered, vaguely, that Hardison continued with the briefing long after Parker fell asleep. He wasn't trying to stop him. His babbling was giving a useful and sometimes very disturbing insight in their doings, though he had to put a mask on his face several times. His blood ran cold when the hacker casually explained their dance through the dozens of Chileans attacking the hospital. When Hardison mentioned his going into the street with a gun, while Sophie was retreating _through_ the Chileans, he was grateful he that wasn't connected to any beeping shit anymore.

Yep, he definitely wanted to kill them all, one by one, but not _kill _them, just… sort of grab their heads and slam them into the wall, while yelling and cursing. He didn't send them away for nothing, for god's sake!

Betsy came shortly after Hardison tried to explain what exactly his gnomes did with his Arabic and Hebrew letters and numbers, and how important it was to have a loyal and loving community all over the world, and she suggested a ten minute break.

Finally. He needed it desperately – Hardison was in fact entertaining him, but he had to concentrate on much darker things to pull it through, and that was exhausting him. Ten minutes of silence would help him to get it together and continue.

It was the last thing he remembered.

Waking up was a slow process, and that surprised him – he was usually completely awake in a second. The light was coming from the wrong side, and female voices were speaking Spanish. The 'S' sounds were regular and there wasn't any soft pronunciation, it wasn't Chilean Spanish.

He kept his eyes closed and just listened. Hardison's typing was relaxed, he wasn't doing anything important. Two different sounds of paper located Nate and Sophie at the table, with the newspaper and a heavier magazine, and soft but quick clicking of metal told him that Parker was practicing lock picking somewhere near him.

Nope, something was wrong with _that_ sound. Either she was doing it blindfolded and with one hand in three gloves, or… he opened his eyes and looked at the chair two meters from the bed. Betsy was sitting with a few locks in her lap, watching a Spanish soap opera on the screens and opening the locks without looking at them. Damn. And he didn't even feel delirious again.

He closed his eyes again, trying to remember what happened. This was obviously morning, and he had lost the entire night, and a good part of yesterday. Where the hell was Parker? She was sleeping just a few inches away from him, and if those fools let her stay- light steps above his head gave him the answer and he slowly exhaled.

He remembered a few blurred images from the evening; the dimmed light from the kitchen and Hardison's quiet humming. The bed had been lit by the blue light from the laptop – and Parker had been cuddled under his arm. _Fuck_. That must have been the effect of Hardison's speech about the attack on the hospital – he remembered his own distorted thoughts about keeping them close.

Whatever. That was a mistake. He allowed himself to trust himself again, and that was reckless. The memory of his thinking about killing Nate just for fun was still fucking clear in his head, and he could recall that feeling in full strength without any effort.

"Good morning, Eliot. Good morning, George," Betsy said.

So, would they _all_ continue to wave George before his face? He refused to look at the plant. Betsy snapped her fingers and Hardison trotted in with a tray.

"Breakfast. You may watch _Isabella, the Rose of Guadalajara_ while you eat."

"I won't…" _eat,_ he almost said, but her eyes were calm, and he sensed a creepy smile emerging. "…watch Isabella," he finished quietly.

"I can't understand why anybody watches that stuff," Hardison glanced at the screen where two women were screaming at each other, almost hitting him in the head with the tray. "Oops, sorry," he lowered it and put it on the table. Eliot glanced at him, wondering why he smiled, and then realized he didn't flinch or freeze at the threat. He suppressed his annoyance and looked at Betsy again.

"Me neither. I don't watch these kinds of shows, it's a revelation to me." Betsy clicked the last lock and threw it on the floor with the others. "I watch Sons of Anarchy."

Hardison raised his both hands in the air, and ran back to his computer.

"I'm going home," she said when he closed his eyes again, thinking about how to avoid eating, and that stirred him. He looked at her and suddenly realized he was going to miss her. _Jesus Christ, that must have been some sort of twisted Stockholm syndrome _– he barely suppressed the laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing… just, thinking about how repaying everything you have done will be a full time job."

"In fact, I know what you can do for me." Her smile was innocent, he noticed with growing worry. "Besides not allowing yourself to come before me in a horizontal position ever again."

"Listening."

"I want you to make a Facebook account."

He looked at her for a few seconds, then blinked. She smiled. Calmly.

"Did you just say…?"

"Yep. I hate phones."

"But that's-"

"Take it or leave it."

"May I suggest-"

"No."

_Jesus_. He sighed, contemplating banging his head on the table, and shifted under her steady gaze. "Okay," he finally whispered.

"There, there," she smiled. "You're gonna love it. Now, stop looking so lost; you still need surveillance, and I'll come by once a day for awhile. This is not a goodbye." She reached into her jacket and pulled a piece of paper from it. "And I have a present for you."

He took the paper, only then noticing that she was fully dressed, obviously waiting for him to wake up. "What's this?"

"Do you know why I called you a idiot all the time in the hospital, while I was watching your three day long struggle to run away from there?"

"I can think of few reasons, yes," he said carefully.

"The next time you want to escape from a hospital, you don't have to collect stolen things under your pillow, you just have to sign this paper – it's your statement of accepting the full responsibility for your actions and health, and even the Chief Nurse can't keep you in the hospital."

Fuck. _Double fuck_. He could have spared himself of all the trouble by-

"And that reminded me of something. Sit, please."

He obeyed without thinking, still looking at the paper and silently cursing.

Betsy removed the pillows and took both scalpels he had hid underneath them. _Triple fuck_.

"Just in case," he murmured. "A habit. I was practicing. You never know when you'll have to cut the tubes, wires, IVs, or open a beer…"

"Idiot."

He squinted and just smiled, knowing very well how much impressed she was.

"They have all my numbers for emergencies," she continued after a sigh. "They also have a description of all the possible emergencies, just in case. It's better for you if they don't have to call me. Try not to do anything stupid this time, okay?"

_That sounded familiar_. "Yes, of course," he murmured again, thinking about how getting shot ended with a Facebook account; karma was a bitch. An insane bitch. On heavy drugs. _Jesus, what a mess_.

He really, really didn't want her to leave. She was a constant in this confusing shit that his life had become, something unchangeable, solid. He knew her reactions and thinking, there were no surprises, and without her… fuck, he was feeling _secure_ with her.

"I don't like that sinking look. Stop looking so helpless, will you?" she said quiet. "It doesn't suit you, and it's making me nervous. Besides, it won't save you from the breakfast. Second, things are getting better."

He noticed she said _things_, and not _you_.

"You saved my life twice," he said trying to keep his voice steady. "You're a fool if you think that one account can deal with it."

"That's what I do," she said. "And you, of all people, don't have a right to question _that_. Because, if you dare do it, you would have to question everything you have done. Are you ready for that?"

He just shook his head – his throat was strangely clenched and no words came.

She smiled and got up. "Take care of them while I'm gone. They are very…very…" she trailed off and smiled. "Adorable."

"Shit, Betsy, I'm not-" she stopped his desperate words with yet another smile.

"The strength of the pack is the wolf," she leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. She stayed close, and whispered, "But the strength of the wolf is the pack, Eliot Spencer. Remember that… because, at the moment you forget that the _next_ time, you are all dead."

He froze, unable to say anything, and when he was able to breathe in again, she was gone.

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Nate knew that Eliot's refusing to eat wasn't a decision, it was a state, and he had monitored that for the last two days, waiting for improvement that didn't come.

Sophie knew everything that had to be done with the IVs – Betsy showed her every step before she left. Eliot was getting everything he needed through it, but Betsy said he had to start eating.

He refused breakfast.

When they ordered his favorite Chinese for lunch, he said it would make him sick.

When Parker came with crackers, he took two only because she threatened to play airplane until he got tired of avoiding the flying cracker, and they all knew she meant business.

Nate just kept silent watch, not interfering, letting them do whatever they thought would help. Eliot _was_ better, much better – he wasn't tensed like a spring when they were near and he talked more, and his eyes lost that tormented edge – but Nate could clearly see the effort he was putting in all of it. And he _couldn't_ eat.

They couldn't attack him without any break, he had to rest, and Nate let Sophie to decide when, and how long they'd try to occupy him, and when to leave him alone. Betsy suggested that conversations shouldn't be longer than ten minutes at once, he needed breaks to get it together, and Sophie took care that Hardison didn't overdo it again. They didn't speak about her decisions, but Nate noticed she knew exactly when to speak with Eliot, and he knew how she knew, what she was watching.

Eliot's hands were shaking. No matter how controlled his face was, or normal his voice, he couldn't hide the trembling that showed Nate when his thoughts were occupied with _that_ night, when he was going through those hours again. Sophie would usually wait to see if it would calm down, but it never did. The only thing that could stop it was one of them, sitting and talking about anything, diverting his attention and giving him something to think about. Once it took an entire hour of talking to stop the trembling, and Eliot was barely able to pretend that he was participating in the conversation. They were expecting him to sleep after that because he was so obviously exhausted by an hour of Sophie's chatting, but he avoided it with the phone.

Nate knew Eliot was still afraid of the things he might do when out, and that Hardison's and Parker's closing in just dulled that fear, it didn't remove it.

He knew exactly when his phone was just a distraction for them, and when he was really working on something, and when the afternoon started to crawl into evening, he noticed that he used it only to keep them all away.

Hardison and Parker were in the kitchen preparing the sandwich-that-couldn't-be-refused, and they used almost all the ingredients they could, in different combinations. Sophie was reading something, pretty much spent herself, and the screens were tilting with a few different channels, in case Eliot would watch something.

Eliot, of course, refused the sandwich-that-couldn't-be-refused, and Nate watched the impact their indignation had on Eliot. He was tired after their attacks all day and talking, in pain that grew worse as night closed in, his hands were hidden under the blanket when they brought him the dinner, and his patience was on its last reserves. Hardison's bitching about the sandwich forced him to put the mask on once, for the first time during the day, and when Parker tried to push the sandwich into his face to smell it, he hissed a warning at her.

Perfect.

He needed him open, nervous and vulnerable, exhausted and without the usual defenses.

"Enough!" Nate didn't have to yell, he just raised his voice slightly, and the quarrel by the bed stopped immediately. He slowly folded the newspaper and threw it on the table. He went to the kitchen and took a bottle and glasses. "Go to the bar and drink something. Stay there until I come down."

"Why?" Parker asked. "I won't. You'll yell at him."

"I wouldn't either," Hardison shot an uncertain glance to him. "What are you going to-"

"Get. Out. All of you," he slowly repeated. Sophie's eyebrows were raised in warning when she passed by him, squeezing his forearm for a second. Hardison and Parker were still hesitating, staying in front of the bed like a barrier.

He waited. They waited. He looked at them. They sighed and slowly moved.

"Call me if he… anything. You know," Hardison turned to Eliot before he went after Parker who stormed out, the thief shooting a murderous glare at him.

Eliot was still looking at the door where they disappeared, when Nate moved the chair closer to the bed and sat.

"Did he just say I should call _him_, if you yell at me?" his eyebrows were very high.

"Yep, I'm afraid he did," Nate sighed and put his legs on the bed.

"Jesus," Eliot shook his head.

"Puppy hitter," he smirked and gave him a glass with a few drops of Jack in it. The shaking of his hands was a little less visible, his mind was diverted from the dead for a moment. Yet, he could see shadows in his eyes were still present, though he tried to cover them.

"Are you sure Betsy would approve alcohol?"

"Eliot."

"She'll find out," he continued, and Nate wondered what sounds he was covering with the sound of his own voice. "She _always_ finds out."

"Eliot. Shut up," he motioned to the empty room. "This is _silence_. Enjoy it while you can."

Nate stretched his legs completely and followed his own advice.

Eliot took one careful sip, and Nate really hoped he didn't kill him with this. Though, fighting with demons usually demanded the whole bottle connected to the IV.

This silence was relaxing; the channels were turned down almost completely, and the quiet voices were only emphasizing the absence of voices in the room.

Eliot closed his eyes, just listening.

"That night when they attacked the hospital and Hardison went into the street with the gun…" Eliot said after a minute. "… you still have that gun, here?"

"I guess. And few more, in the bag from the van. Why?"

Eliot's eyes were still closed. "Would you bring it to me, now?"

Nate stayed silent for a second, then realization hit him. Eliot was _listening_. He silently lowered his legs to the floor and stood up, listening as well. The TV voices weren't the only quiet noise in the room, there was something else… barely audible mechanical sounds that were coming from behind the sofa.

When he stood up, a little shadow disappeared, and in the next moment, Parker2000, rolled over the lower part of the room at full speed, escaping to the main door, like a huge green bug on six wheels. The door opened just enough for a hand to reach in and yank Parker2000 out of the room, and then shut again.

"You wouldn't shoot it, right?"

"Probably not. Hardison wouldn't stop whining for days." Eliot still didn't open his eyes. "Shots would alarm Bonnano's watch in the bar, ruin your floor, and the smell… gunpowder would stay for awhile."

Adding a very distinctive note of reality to his thoughts, Nate finished his sentence. "Yet, it's good to know they can still surprise me even after five years," he sighed, returning to the chair.

Five years. It took much less than five years to bond with one's buddies in war; danger and death made sure that those bonds were solid as steel. The team was not in a war, but their work brought dangers on a daily basis, and they were _living_ by relying on each other. Only one slip, and someone could get hurt, or get killed.

And the other members of the team, slowly, not visibly, became more important than himself. Nate knew that, and he understood that, but nevertheless, he couldn't let that feeling become the guiding line for all of their actions.

He also knew that Eliot would be the first who would fall under that.

Eliot was watching him thinking. "What do you want, Nate?"

It was the wrong question. What he _wanted_ to do had nothing to do with his being here. What he _had_ to do was cut him open, knock him down to the ground, and mercilessly twist every blade that had been stabbed into him.

Nate watched his face, noticing the tension in the muscles around his eyes and it showed him much more than his paleness and the dark circles around them. They were near the end of a hard day. Eliot needed a rest, desperately.

"We have a problem that needs solving," he said lightly.

Eliot looked at him. "No shit," he said. "Just one?"

"One problem at a time. You said nothing about changing your decision, so we don't have a hitter. You quit. And I have to ask you the same question – what do you want, Eliot?"

An ironic, tired smile flew over his face, and Nate figured it out – it was the wrong question for him, too. Eliot knew what he wanted… and it had nothing to do with the things he _had_ to do.

_Careful, careful_. He couldn't ask him why, it would be too fast, and exposing of all this shit at once would crush on him hard. The night that was hovering over all of them was too near and fresh. All of his reasons for quitting were very real in his head, and breaking them, one by one, would demand a lot of evading and beating about the bush.

"No matter what I think about it, your decisions are yours," Nate continued. "I presume you thought about it during those two days since you woke up. Have you found someone who can replace you?"

"I tried. No one is…" he watched him struggling with the right word, and not succeeding. "Every one I thought of has… No. Just… There's no one available. For now."

"No one can love us like you do?" he offered with a glint.

He scowled. "No one has enough patience to live with you the first two years, after that all the senses goes numb, and the rest is easy," he almost growled.

"Yes, you can say it that way, too," he smiled, stirring his drink. It was a relief to hear that almost growl again, after all those polite and soft words. "But I can recall our troubles with you at the beginning – you weren't, exactly, the easiest person to work with – hell, to be in the same room with. We all came a long way. It was a nice five years."

Eliot shook his head in exasperation. "Jesus, Nate, if you start to remember the precious little moments that could make me feel all warm and soft, and make me change my mind, I'll really throw you out. Somehow."

"Precious little moments? Seriously?" He had to smirk, watching his jaw tighten. "Relax, I'm just probing. You know what I'm doing, I know that you know what I'm doing, you know that I know that you know… so just enjoy the ride. There will be enough time to ponder the prec-" he cleared his throat, pretending to flinch, and continued softly. "– memories. I meant to say memories. Later. When you visit us and we hang out."

"This is disgraceful," Eliot grimaced. "You sound like Soph- no, worse, you sound like Parker trying to sound like Sophie. What's wrong wi-" he stopped. "And why should I visit you and hang out with you after this… this?"

Because no one here is ditching you for what you have done and we want you here in the team; yep, sure, he could say that. Nate knew that this particular problem was already broached and shaken by their behavior – Eliot knew them well and he knew they were not pretending to be normal. "They'll miss you badly," he said simply. And you can't miss someone you don't want close. "Most of all, they won't understand your reasons. I can't say that I understand them, too." He didn't look at him while he spoke, he watched his glass. "Do you understand them, Eliot?"

"The initial ones are not relevant anymore, I managed to sort a few things out in my head," he said quietly. "That night is over and most of them stayed in it, so you don't have to tiptoe around the hitter being needed and loved, okay? Jesus, Nate, do you really think that I'm doing this because of the _feelings_? Mine, yours, theirs? I have to go because I'm a mess, and I can't do my job, and because I'm dangerous. Is that clear enough?"

"No."

Eliot took one deeper breath and slowly exhaled. "Look-" he started. "I started this shit and it got out of control. I can't say with certainty that everything that I've done won't lead them all here after me, one by one, or all together. You all can still be killed because of me, do you understand that?"

"No." Nate took the remote from the table, pointed it at screens and pressed. "No, there's no one who can come here after you," he said softly.

On the first screen was a CNN report about a state of emergency in Boston, with background recordings of the 75th Ranger Regiment on the streets.

"Patrick had told me that a gang war is the worst thing that can happen to a town, and I told him he's wrong. Gang wars are not easy to stop, too many things are involved. Corrupted politicians, policemen, city politics… gangs are spread in every niche, from lowest bottom to the top. Only don Lazzara holds one third of the town councilors in his hand, the rest of them are equally divided between the Chileans, the Irish, the Mexicans… and all of them would continue to fight with all their means. Boston itself would never be able to pull out every tentacle and clean everything, because Boston IS one giant cartel, Eliot." He looked at him – he was staring at the screens that showed many men in suits being arrested in front of rifles. "When you're faced with the Gordian knot, cutting it is _really_ the only solution. Boston couldn't provide a sufficient force for that, so we engaged a higher authority. City politics are irrelevant when it comes to a terrorism threat. Hardison's phone could give you only a few pieces of information, not the whole picture." He turned on the second screen, showing him the Army helicopters over Boston, and people in hazmat suits on the streets below them. And the barricades on the streets. "_This_ is the whole picture."

Eliot took the Jack in one gulp, and Nate flinched. He didn't eat for days and he was on infusion, and… damn. He poured a few more drops in his glass.

"What have you – you now, this is insane."

"No, this is useful. When an anonymous call said that all the casinos in town are filled with viruses, the Department of Homeland Security suddenly discovered that the most of casino owners already had suspicious activities reported and noted before – Hardison planted documents with light accusations and unclear data – enough to divert their attention to possible organized crime with biological trafficking under the cover of gambling. All the casinos in town are closed for business and full of people in hazmat suits. And guess what, no one is killing anyone anymore, the huge gang war is completely forgotten. It will take a month at least to clear all the mess, to ensure that there are no viruses that can threaten anybody, that the accusations are not substantiated. The majority of those arrested will walk free, except those who were caught with something during the investigation. The heads of the gangs will be cleared of everything, I guess, because we couldn't find anything solid in this short a time, but they all already received the message. 'The next time, it won't be just one month out of business.' Only the heads of the gangs know about the message, and they'll keep it for themselves, trust me."

"Nate." Eliot turned to him, his eyes were glazed. "Please, tell me you didn't sign that message as Nate Ford."

He thought for a second, remembering how fragile Eliot was now, and that there was no beeping that could warn him about his state.

Eliot didn't wait for his answer, he covered his eyes with a hand and sank into the pillows.

"You're insane."

"_You_ are not the one to tell me that. Everything worth fighting for-"

"-is worth fighting dirty for," Eliot finished, rubbing his forehead. "Yeah, I know. But you're still insane."

"Thank you. Coming from you, it's really a compliment," he smiled. "So, can we say that this particular reason for leaving the team is not relevant anymore?" _Fuck_. It sounded almost as if he put Boston into a state of emergency just to ease the worries of his hitter… Well. He cleared his throat and continued. "We are now completely safe, okay? No gang ever will stand in our way, is that clear? No one would mess with the team who sent the Department of Defense after them, just as a warning."

Eliot's hand was still on his forehead. "It's time to check the windows. Look for bugs on the outer side of the glass."

"She left without any rope or harness, I don't think-"

Eliot shot him an irate look. "The all the equipment is on your roof – she waited to see if Hardison would succeed with Parker2000, and after that Sophie was holding her for awhile with explanations about why she shouldn't go there – by now she should be climbing down near the kitchen. I usually check those things once a week, the chances of sabotage are enormous, and we can only hope that the Chileans didn't find them while they were here."

Nate went to check the kitchen window, but Parker was much quicker than they thought. She was hanging upside down and planting a bug on the window closest to them.

He opened the window and yanked her inside.

"Oh. Good evening, Nate. Good evening Eliot. Good evening George," she chirped. "I was just-"

"-passing by?" Nate finished and nudged her towards the door. She sent a smile to Eliot who returned it with a relaxed smile that sent the message he was fine, so the thief let Nate to push her out. He locked the door and returned to Eliot.

The oxygen mask was closer than it was before, he obviously used it while he was dealing with Parker, but his hands were steady for now.

"You know, Parker was the one who had a perfect grasp on the situation the entire time," Nate said when he sat again. "Everything she said to me was true. I should have listened to her more, maybe this shit wouldn't be so nasty."

"You should have listened to me in the first place."

"If I had, you would be dead," he pointed out. "But, if you listened to me, _we_ would be dead… so we could say that it's a pretty good outcome, considering everything." He looked at him, not sure how to read the darkening of his eyes. "This all started with two wrong decisions in that warehouse, and continued in the same tone for a long time… but we know, now, what was wrong. Do you have problems with that?"

"No. I told you I'm cool with your doings in the hospital or later, until you brought them all into Estrella – your attitude is the problem, Nate. You put four lives in danger, repeatedly, to save one."

"And problem with that is…?" he softly asked.

He could sense rage starting to boil inside Eliot, when he slowly inhaled. "You were against the gang, without a hitter," he patiently explained. "I was doing my job, I knew what I was doing, and what I wanted, and I knew how. I did it before. Yes, I would probably end up dead, but that's the usual risk, nothing unexpected. You, on the other hand, were in the middle of something that you shouldn't even touch, or get close to-"

"We are alive," he said simply. "And I can't not think that you would be much better if that night was something that we did together."

"Of course," Eliot's smile was thin and cold. "I could bring Hardison to Marco's Tavern with me, to enjoy seeing Rojas's brain on the floor. I should have certainly taken Sophie into that slam when I was chased for an hour by forty Chileans. I survived that only because of my training, but yes, she would fit in perfectly. And having Parker near while killing Barclay would be just great – it was too simple, her presence would surely add a little drama and increase my chances, right?" he ran his left hand through his hair. The right was holding the glass, and Nate noticed the tremors that were starting to run through his fingers. "If any of you were with me, it would be a slaughter. I knew what I was doing, Nate, and I knew I had to do it alone. That kind of danger was not _for you_."

"_That_ is one thing you don't understand," he leaned forward, suddenly serious. "They would rather go through all of that, _with you_, than to be forced to chase you all around, not knowing if you're alive or dead. 'Cause that is what the team is all about, Eliot. The team. Five members, five people. You tried to save the team by destroying the essence of it, the true meaning of it. You took away their right to _choose_. That is something they'll hardly forgive you for."

"Forgiveness is something I've left behind a long time ago, Nate. That word has no power anymore." His smile was pained, and for a moment weariness etched deeper in his face. "I did what I had to do, and I had to do it alone. I'm the hitter, and that was a job for the hitter, not for the hacker, or the thief, or… I knew the risk and I took it – hitters are expendable."

"So, Parker is not Parker, she's just the thief, if you're only the hitter. We are not people, we are our jobs, our roles in the team, we are what we do? Is that what you're trying to say? Or that it applies only to you, Eliot?" Nate didn't pause, but his voice hardened. "You check Parker's harnesses once a week because we need a thief in the team, and getting the new one if she gets killed would be a nuisance? Of course not. She is precious. She is Parker, who happens to also be a thief. For you, we all are… yours. How dare you ask us to see you only as a hitter?! You're not something with a sign 'Use in a case of emergency', you idiot. This shit was a team problem, we were in it together, and you had the right to decide what to do with the hitter… but you had no right to decide what to do with Eliot." He gave him a few seconds of silence, and finished his drink with one gulp. "Eliot is ours. And he is occasionally the hitter. We can go on without the hitter part – but not without everything else."

Eliot didn't move, and his face kept the same expression he had before Nate said anything, as if the last minute had been filled with only comfortable silence. Nate vented an exasperated sigh, searching his face, trying to find something, anything in it.

"So." Eliot's voice was light. Someone else could easily be fooled by it. "You were sayin' something about risking four lives for one, right? Or four roles for one life? Or members for a role? You've lost me a little there," he looked at him, slowly turning his head, the move only showing the amount of anger he had to control. "The four of you were deep into the hitter business that night, going after, and running into guys with guns… but somehow I missed who made the hitter's decisions, and with what experience. If I recall correctly, when Parker the _member_ loaned Parker _the thief t_o Archie to crack the Steranko, the four of us didn't transform into four thieves to get her out. We did _our_ jobs, with the thief doing hers, right?" he paused, catching his breath, and Nate had to remind himself not to push him over the edge too soon. "Yes, we have a problem, you were right. Without trusting the judgment of a professional, everything will fall apart, and you're aware of that. What'll it be the next time, when Hardison decides he has to hack something without us? What the hell are we supposed-"

"Eliot," Nate stopped him softly. "There'll be no next time. You resigned."

Silence stretched between them, short but heavy. Nate had no intentions of letting it stretch too long, to allow any relaxation. "Did you want to die that night, Eliot?" he asked when Eliot's eyes dropped to the blanket. "I have to know that, it's important."

"Why is it important?" Eliot sounded uncertain for a moment.

"Because I'll have to ask you about one thing that I'll never be able to forgive you for. After you answer this."

Eliot paused, gaze still fixed downwards. "I tried not to die, Nate. A few times I wished I was dead already – usually before the tiresome getting up and continuing. A few times I thought that being dead would spare me from all the shit that waited for me after…" he stopped, checked the last sip of whiskey in his glass, and decided to leave it there. "After Barclay, at dawn, I was sure I wouldn't make it – he did a pretty good job before I killed him. But no, I didn't _want_ to die. I was not trying to commit suicide, if that's what you're asking."

"Yes, Barclay…" Nate said lightly. "After that you used a chest tube to decrease the pressure a little, right?"

"Not much – I had to balance the blood loss and the pressure. The law of communicating vessels; with my lungs full of blood, bleeding would be slower and-" Eliot finally noticed his tone, it warned him and he raised his head, looking at him. "Why?"

Nate took a long breath and leaned forward. "If you didn't want to die, why didn't you do the same thing in that corridor at the end, when you couldn't breathe?"

Eliot stared at him, looking completely frozen.

"I didn't know about the chest tube," Nate continued. "If I was alone, if Hardison hadn't come and found out, you would be dead in less than a minute."

Eliot managed to blink, finally. "I… I didn't remember that…option," he whispered. Nate was searching for a lie in his eyes, but it wasn't there, he looked stunned with the realization. He really had forgot about that.

"Okay," Nate nodded. "I understand that."

Eliot blinked once more, getting it together. "And _that_ was the unforgivable thing?" he asked, confused. He looked tired, more and more so with each turn in the conversation. Nate really hoped that Betsy wouldn't find out about this.

"No, not that. The warehouse."

Eliot sighed. "What about the warehouse? That I didn't tell you I was shot? I didn't do it without reason, Nate, I calcul-"

"Now that you mention it, yes, I was pissed because of that. Mad, in fact. Just try to imagine one of us in that position, and how would you feel if we didn't tell you we were shot, and we made you leave us."

Eliot's smile was thin and empty. "You bastard," his restrained whisper was barely heard. "How dare you lecture me about the same shit you put us through on the _Maltese Falcon_? When, if I recall correctly, you were shot, and you made us leave you without telling us?!"

Now it was Nate's turn to freeze – he _did_ forget about that. He forced himself to meet his eyes without wincing. "What happened to your earbud, Eliot?" he whispered.

Eliot averted his eyes with indignation – for him, that question was just Nate's evading answering the question. "Smashed," he said dryly. "That was the one of the first things I told you when I called you."

"Yes, I know it's smashed. But you keep forgetting about the cameras. I was the only one who saw that it was smashed by _your_ foot, and not a Chilean." Nate noted the subtle change in his posture; the tension increased without any visible sign. "And _that_ is the only unforgivable thing that you did." He put his glass on the table and took a sip directly from the bottle, resting his back in the chair. "It wasn't smashed in the fight with them, you pulled it out and destroyed it only a second after the bullet hit you." he continued in an even, explanatory tone, trying to suppress the rage that thinking about this woke up. "You had no idea who those guys were, you found out about the Chileans and the set up for us when you talked to them shortly after that. They could have been anybody – robbers, bounty hunters, sent only after you, being no threat to us. And you destroyed, without thinking, the direct communication with the team, because that earbud could lead them to us if they killed you."

"I had a phone. And I called for help, remember?"

"When you started to _think_. I don't question your thinking, Eliot – your instinctive reactions are what trouble me. And as if destroying of the earbud wasn't enough, you sent your tracking device away with Cuchillo… one more thing that could help us find you in time." He looked him directly in the eyes. "What if you discovered that your phone was smashed in the fight, Eliot?"

"I wasn't thinkin-" he stopped and bit his lip.

"Exactly. You wasn't thinking, you acted. The hitter who doesn't protect himself _before_ he goes on protecting someone else, is of no use. He is a liability, and can not be trusted," he forced his voice into a slightly softer tone. "When I mentioned the five years that we spent together, at the beginning, I wanted to tell you about the problem that I'm aware of – all this bonding and family shit did something to us – the others became more important than ourselves. That keeps us together and alive. And at the same time, that will get us all killed." He let a little wry smile to show on his face, and continued. "Somewhere in between that two, are our future actions – I think that with being aware of the problem, that problem can be controlled. Not solved, just… kept under control."

Eliot rubbed his forehead wearily with the back of his hand, not looking at him, and Nate gave him that time, knowing he was alert, that he knew where this was leading. His hands were shaking visibly, there was no way he could hide it. His anxiety grew with almost every second now, reminding Nate of his deranged reaction when he realized on the terrace that Nate wasn't alone. Only this time there was no vent for it, he was forced to stay immobile.

And Nate had no intention to ease that tension – he was trying to find a way to increase it. He shifted his attention from Eliot's hands to his eyes, noted the return of that damn tormented edge, and ignored his own sorrow with a smile.

He put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, swinging the bottle in his fingers. "We need you in the team," he said carefully. "Not the hitter. You. Doing whatever you want to do. Is that clear?"

He knew what he was going to see, but he thought Eliot was too exhausted to gather enough strength; he was wrong. The hitter slowly put both of his hands around the glass, relaxing his muscles with an effort that must have cost him a lot more than anyone would ever know, and tilted his head to look at him. With tired, tired eyes that once more managed to keep everything hidden. "Thank you, Nate," he said politely. "Unfortunately, it won't be possible."

The things that they wanted, and the things that they had to do… damn, Nate knew he wouldn't allow Eliot to evade the biggest problem now; he had to destroy this sudden calmness – it was false, just a mask, there was nothing calm in Eliot right now – and he had no time to waste.

"We all trust you with our lives. Why are you the only one who doesn't?"

That question was so obviously giving an answer in itself that Eliot raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Why don't you trust us, if you don't trust yourself? I know _what_ you are," Nate' voice was hard and hoarse. "And _they_ know, now, what you are, Eliot. And they still trust you."

Jesus, he _felt_ his mask ripping.

The sudden anger that flashed through Eliot's eyes couldn't be hidden.

"You know nothing," he hissed, forcing the words to come out. "Don't you dare say you know what I am – you fools are in denial. You –" he choked on the anger and straightened himself up. "I wanted to kill you on that terrace – I could kill you, and I can do it now – 'cause I don't feel it would be wrong. Do you understand _that_?! I can kill you now and feel nothing about it! I started to feel… something, only when I stopped killing, Nate, and for a long time I managed to keep that, that… sense of wrongness. It's gone now. That's what I do, what I _really_ do."

"So, you're a killer then," he said with an almost cheerful note of revelation that forced a low, mad growl from the hitter. Nate got up and grabbed the bed, turning it sideways. Eliot's legs were towards the table now, and his back to the kitchen. And the door. Instant alarm went through his body and eyes, and the glass in his hands gave a cracking sound.

"What are you doing?!" he whispered, trying to turn around, almost knocking himself out when the pain from the violent jerk bent him forward. "Turn it back!"

"No way." He left the bottle on the table and threw away the chair, smashing it into the wall with a loud sound that went through Eliot like a bolt of electricity. "I should have done this in that office, to show you _what_ you really are, but there would always be a doubt about it – you were in shock and dying. Now you're not and your mind, what is left of that pitiful piece of shit, is clear now." He came one step closer. "Your back is unprotected, you don't control the door and the windows anymore. How does it feel?"

"For god's sake, Nate, you really think this will show me something?! I've been through shit like this before, and trust me, in front of men who knew what they were doing. You don't. S-stop jumping and turn the damn bed!"

"You're afraid of losing the control and killing us, right? As far as I can see, you're doing just fine. So, what is the problem, then? Except you're still deeply upset by everything that happen-"

"Deeply upset?!" he choked on the words, staring at him in disbelief. The shaking crept up to his shoulders. "I've killed four men with my hands. Two with a gun – felt nothing. Just annoyance because the second one could be killed silently, and that would spare me lots of walking. I killed Barclay with a scalpel. Nothing. Thought about how it was good he didn't smash the phones when he fell. I thought of killing you – nothing." He drew a deep breath, winced again with pain, but went on. "That is a thing that maybe can be changed, if I tried again – if somehow all of this… I-I've done it before. Getting up from this. There's a chance for it. Maybe. With time," he shook his head, desperately. "But when I black out, I kill, it's instinct, it can't be stopped, it can't be controlled, it can't-" his voice gave out and he blindly searched for the mask on the blanket, putting it on his face.

"If you can't feel that killing me is wrong, why don't you do it, just like that? Why am I still alive?!" Nate pushed the bed to slam into the shelf and followed it, with raged, quick moves. He leaned against the bed with both hands, entering his personal space – yes, he did ask himself for a second if he had lost his mind – but he _knew_ he could trust him. His words weren't empty. "If you kill, if it's instinct, why are you not killing me? Every damn instinct in your body should be screaming right now – but you are controlling it. What do I have to do to put you into a mindless rage, to force you to snap completely, to show you that you can't kill me, or them, not anybody else, unless you _want_ it!?" with those last words he swung his hand as fast as he could, aiming a blow at his face, but Eliot raised his left hand in an almost casual manner and blocked his hit, still staring at him in utter distress. "If this was an instinct – and it was," Nate whispered, still holding his hand in the air. "Why am I _alive_?"

He lowered his hand when no answer came, and slowly took the glass from his hand, cracked into three large pieces. Eliot took off the mask; Nate noticed that plastic was distorted too. He tried to formulate the words, but it was harder than it looked.

"I can't remember killing Cuchillo, Nate. Everything was black." This time, the words were defeated, without that urge that left him breathless, barely audible. "If I can't trust myself, to not to do that again… no amount of your trust can make this work. I won't allow it. I won't take that risk. _You_ shouldn't allow it. How… how you can send Sophie with me somewhere? Waiting, not just you, everybody… waiting to see what I would do if I black out again? If something knocked me out, and she tried to wake me up?" He closed his eyes and bowed his head; his strength was spent, his voice barely a whisper.

Nate sat on the bed and put both hands on his shoulders, forcing him to look at him. The deep weariness in his eyes showed him they didn't have much time – he tried not to think about Betsy's warnings about ten minute conversations and not disturbing him.

"I understand why you are afraid," he said quietly. "You don't know how thin the glaze that you put over the monster is – when it cracks, as it happened with Cuchillo, you kill. And you know you're a killer in the core because of that, right?"

"Yeah, somethin' like that," he replied tiredly.

"Do you want to know what you did to him? I was there, remember?" he waited then continued. "Well, it was the most gruesome thing I've seen in ages. You slapped him so hard that he flew two meters."

Yep, Betsy would bitch him out for years for this – it took almost five seconds until Eliot blinked and looked at him more focused. "You _didn't_ kill him," he explained. "I saw your assessment in three quick glances while you were approaching. Just a slap across his already broken face was enough to send him to the floor unconscious. So, Eliot, if you didn't kill the man with the knife, the guy who shot you and who was attacking me, while in shock and driven only by fucking instincts, why should we expect you to kill anybody else? Or us? We are not _that_ annoying."

He felt something inside him going perfectly still. But he wasn't finished. He tightened the grip on his shoulders, not letting him avert his eyes from him.

"Every time you think of that night, your hands start to shake," Nate continued. "Maybe you felt nothing while killing those men - because you were in shock, and dying, perhaps? You keep forgetting what state you were in, and you still are. But why do your hands shake _now_? You can't fool us, you never could, Eliot. You're trying to _survive_ what you have done, for god's sake!" He looked at him more closely. "Are you succeeding?" he asked seriously.

"It will… take time. To tell," Eliot whispered hoarsely. "About surviving this."

"You did it before," he said gently, trying to pour the confidence back into his eyes. "You went down with Moreau's men, and you got up. And continued. You'll do it again. In the end, it's only that… striving, that's important, not the results. Not the falls, just the getting up. This is not different…" he trailed off, watching the sudden flicker of agony in Eliot's eyes, hidden in a second. His voice flattened. "This _is_ different. What, Eliot?"

"The difference –" his voice was now wavering dangerously. "Moreau's men – a clean fight against the odds, against the men that were sent to kill us. They knew what they were going to do, and they knew the risk, they accepted it. It was… hard. Killing again, after everything I've done to stop it, to change…. But yes, I got up. And continued. Started from the beginning, all that tiresome non – killing shit." He struggled for better control of his face, of his words, but it was too much for him; Nate watched the agony showing clearer with every word. "What I've done now, it _is_ different. This time I didn't have armed men ready to attack, this time _I _did-" his voice cracked and he gritted his teeth, just looking at him. He couldn't _say_ it.

He didn't have to. Realization hit Nate like a blow in the gut and for some seconds he remained still, shocked into frozen immobility. _Oh fuck_. All the people that died that night weren't a threat. They were _used_; he used them and sent them to their deaths. No one could call them innocent, but they weren't involved into this Chilean thing until Eliot pushed them all into it; to their deaths. Yep, _Eliot _would call them innocent.

_Can you imagine what I would do if I could do all that I can_? He remembered the message on the butterfly that Eliot had left in their office; yep, that _was_ a warning.

And Nate knew this talk was over. He could tear him apart, cut his heart in half and glue it together – Eliot would let him do it, he trusted him. They could talk freely about the men he killed with his own hands. But the men whose death he _caused_ – they were forbidden. They were locked behind those eyes that were looking at him begging him to understand, and to leave it alone. Much worse, he was begging to leave _him_ alone with them – and he had to do it.

Sophie was right; if they let him leave, he would be dead in two weeks. Some burdens just couldn't be carried alone, getting heavier and heavier until the spine just broke and everything became unbearable.

Nate carefully released his grip, letting him slowly fall back – yes, it was a fall, his hands were the only thing that kept him upright. He hoisted himself up, and returned the bed to its previous position.

Eliot's eyes were drained, and he barely managed to lift them to him when he returned and sat again. Nate met his eyes as calmly as he could. "Betsy… she doesn't need to know what I did," he said quietly.

Eliot uttered a breathless huff of laughter at that memory. "I don't know what you are talking about," he whispered the correct reply.

Oh yes, Nate knew he would remember those words.

"The difference between a killer, and a man who knows how to kill if necessary, is here," he touched the hitter's chest with his finger. "And difference between the past, and the future, is here," he pointed at his forehead. "In the future, you might kill again if needed. You know that. And you're aware that it would be for us – again. I don't know how many times you can rebuild yourself from pieces without breaking completely… but dammit, you _will_ have someone who will go after you and pick up the pieces that you've forgot, and shove them back into place. Just like you done for us this whole time." He pinned him with his eyes and held him there. "Your resignation is declined, Eliot Spencer."

.

.

.

He sat by his bed for two hours, holding one hand on his arm, keeping him still although his sleep wasn't restless. Keeping him _there_. No, fuck… keeping the pieces together that he scattered all over the place, and just hoping that Eliot would be able to glue them all together in the right order, in their places. With time. There was always a chance that the creature that would emerge from those scrapes be abominated, wrong. Destroyed.

Butterflies also carried the souls of dead warriors, he remembered Parker's explanation. They had one warrior who had sold his soul for them, but that particular one bargained his deal, saddled up the devil and rode him, and he was not yet letting him turn around and strike back.

Yet, his strength was fading fast, and when the devil turned around, he would have to find four more to deal with.

Nate knew the three of them must be half crazy already, sitting in the bar and waiting, but he couldn't care about it now.

He also knew that after this talk, no light conversation could stop the shaking of Eliot's hands. The wounds were raw and open now. It would be much worse before it started to get better. He had been through it, he knew how it went, every damn step of it. Eliot Spencer wasn't a man who would eat a bullet, but breaking points were hard to determine, even the strongest ones had a point of no return. He was still _thinking_ about surviving this, and that was the involuntary slip of the tongue that Nate noticed and remembered.

Conscience was a strange thing; it could tear apart hearts and minds, but its presence gave hope as much as it tormented – yet, Nate knew that the worst burden laid on his back was not the pain and guilt. No, it was knowing that he would do it again, without a second thought. And that was making him a monster in his own eyes, not the number of dead.

It would be a little easier if Eliot was okay and healthy, if they were occupied with some job that could give him a chance to vent and divert himself for awhile. Having been immobile, pinned to the bed, and left completely to his thoughts, with all of them as a constant reminder of everything - that made the situation much worse. Nate knew very well the exact moment when the thoughts became unbearable, when the pain and guilt rose to the point of screaming madness that couldn't be stopped. He had alcohol to kill the thoughts and stop them, to erase them completely into oblivion. Eliot had nothing. _And the devil was trying to turn around and bite_.

When he decided he could leave him alone, and went to the bar, they were frightened, and sulking, and pissed off, even Sophie. And they knew him so well, that reading his exhaustion gave them all the answers they needed.

He sat at the table and rubbed the back of his neck, chasing the headache away, and failing utterly. "If we want to keep him…" _aliv_e, he almost said, but changed his mind. "with us," he said at last. "We have to do something to fill all these days in front of us. It's not enough to keep him occupied – we have to make him busy. We have to make him _do_ something."

"I don't know what to do," Sophie admitted. "The last time we talked he had half of his brain occupied with… something else. It was impossible, even for me, to involve him completely."

"Watching TV and movies is of no use," Hardison said. "No matter what we're watching, he will shut down after awhile and his mind will just go away."

Morose silence spread over the table; Parker was absently playing with pretzels.

"You really thought the 'Stealing an Eliot Job' was finished when we got him into Lucille?" Nate asked quietly. "That was just… obtaining of all the necessary ingredients."

Three pairs of eyes were looking at him, waiting. He sighed.

"Do you know what all four of you have in common?"

"Except brilliance?" Hardison grinned, but it was a weak try.

"Do you know what made you the best in the world?" he continued. "And what the bait was that I used to hunt you down?"

"Do we want to know?" Sophie frowned.

"You can't resist a challenge," he smiled tiredly. "Only something impossible is worth doing. A man who can't be tricked, a safe that cannot be broken into, a system that cannot be hacked, and item that cannot be retrieved… all four of you have that strive for… being better. If something wakes your curiosity, you're done. And you can't resist a good battle."

Sophie shook her head desperately. "Nate, he is in a bed. What challenge-"

"He needs a distraction from… everything," he hesitated. "And he needs it fast. As in _now_. We have to occupy his _brain_, not his body."

"With what?"

"By attacking something that he will have to defend."

"What?" Hardison squeaked. "Not again _against_ him! You saw where it led us? Besides, what the hell he can defend from us, and why? You make no sense."

"Not to mention he'll know we are up to something," Sophie finished.

"That's the point. _That_ is the challenge. He'll know we are doing something, and if we are lucky, he won't be able to resist the play. Curiosity, people. A wish to see what will happen."

"And what we are attacking?" Parker's eyes were narrowed.

He pushed the bowl of pretzels to the middle of the table.

"Food," he said.

.

.

.

It _was_ much worse now.

Eliot slept fourteen hours and Betsy had to wake him up to change his bandages when she came the next morning, and Nate felt her suspicion when he just fell back to sleep when she was done. She said nothing, though, but gave him further restrictions about talking and disturbing.

When Eliot woke up, later, they were all acting like they did the previous day, and he talked with them, smiled, and even watched _The Sound of Music_ with Sophie, much to Hardison's dismay – but, every time they left him alone, he did nothing. The phone was forgotten on the table. Nate couldn't say he was staring at nothing, because he wasn't. Eliot was just looking in front of himself, with the blanket covering him almost to the neck, hiding his hands.

It wasn't a withdrawal like the past days, he was there, and present, but it was painful to watch him now, _knowing_ what he was thinking about, and what he fought behind those steady and normal features. He was very careful not to show anything to Parker and Hardison, or to reveal something before Sophie.

His normality was too normal, it was the same when he was silent, and when he talked to them and even joked, and Nate knew that now, after all that was said, there was no border between his thinking about that night, and silencing those thoughts. They were constant now, throbbing in his head without pause, coloring everything that surrounded him. He rested, and slept, but the deep weariness in his eyes still had that tormented glaze, no matter if he smiled at Parker, or if he drifted to sleep.

The worst sign was the change in his waking up. No more slow, confused focusing, his eyes would open in a second, alert and awake, and Nate knew that the gunshots were his alarm clock. Or the screams.

They waited with their plan until Eliot agreed to eat some Chinese, to knock out his possible future arguments about eating in general, and when he managed to eat few bites of Kung Pao, everything was set up and ready to roll.

When he fell asleep shortly after that, they all silently sneaked out and went to the bar to start things up. Sophie and Parker went through the last details of the plan. For the two of them, as it showed, this particular job brought much more stress than any grifting or danger – they weren't in their field and the preparations were starting to look as complicated as landing on Iwo Jima.

Nate really tried not to show his impatience.

"Fuck!" Hardison's hiss stopped a quarrel about temperatures and boiling. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck." The hacker was on his feet and leaving the bar without any explanation, hurrying up to apartment and they could only follow him as fast as they could.

The bed was empty.

Parker2000, innocently placed on the shelf, obviously was connected to the hacker's phone. "I've put motion sensors on the door and windows, he couldn't pass by-" Hardison broke off when they saw Eliot standing at the bathroom door. He was dressed in Nate's pajamas trousers, and his hair was wrapped in a towel.

All four of them reached for their phones at the same time, even Parker, but he raised his right hand and stopped them. "Don't even think about calling her."

Hardison eyed the distance between him and bed. "Ten bucks he won't make it without help."

Sophie grinned. "Twenty."

"You're giving _money_ for that bet?" Parker sounded aghast. "I'm in. Thirty. Sparky, win me some money."

"Who said I'm going to the bed?" his voice was a whisper, he didn't move from the door, clutching the frame to keep himself upright, and Nate realized that the sofa was much nearer. If they let him change beds, they would never be able to force him back into the hospital one. _Give him a finger, and he won't take the whole hand, he'll break your arm and dislocate your shoulder as a bonus_.

"A hundred that he'll need only two seconds to get to the bed," Nate said coming closer.

"No way, man, he might stand, but he ain't able to fly, the last time I checked."

Eliot hissed. "_He_ is here. Able to talk." The clenching of his teeth was unmistakable now, and Nate was giving him no more than ten seconds before his hand gave way, the only thing that was keeping him upright. For a second he thought about letting him eat the carpet, but he doubted it would knock any sense into him, he'd just try again – and Betsy's wrath would be biblical.

Nate grabbed the bed and pushed it before him those few meters until it almost touched Eliot's hand. He carefully swung it, blocking his way to the sofa. There was no way he could go around the bed without falling, and he took a few seconds, cherishing the sight of Eliot Spencer cornered, pissed off, and _forced_ to obey.

"Adorable," he smirked, and nudged him with the bed. "Now, get in, or I _will_ call Betsy."

It was almost the last moment, he calculated correctly; Eliot had one second between letting go of the door frame, and reaching with his hand to the railings of the bed, one second that spent all of his strength, but his falling almost looked like sitting. When he leaned into the pillows, moving away the blanket with disdain, he closed his eyes and sighed.

"See? Two seconds. I won. If I was you," he said in a low whisper. "I would pray that Parker doesn't realize this thing can be driven all over the room."

"You, my man, are a damn idiot," Hardison shook his head while helping him roll the bed to the table again, but Eliot just smiled and closed his eyes again, so they let him be without the bitching.

Sophie went to the bed a few minutes later, and just silently put a finger across her mouth, and smiled. He fell asleep maybe even before they secured the bed in its place.

"According to Betsy, we are cool the next two days, while he recovers from this," Hardison whispered.

"Cooking time," Parker grinned. "Nate, if we try to lower the bed down those two stairs, it won't turn over, right?"

.

.

.

The first phase of their attack was dividing into two good and two bad cops, roles that needed to be changed after every meal. The second was waking Eliot up – they gave him two hours and then Parker burned the onions, and the odor stirred him faster than the gunshots would. Okay, maybe not, Nate added to himself.

Sophie went as a distraction with a hair dryer. "Good morning, Eliot. Good morning, George."

"You don't have to tell us good morning every time I wake up," he growled. "And don't come near me with that thing, it damages-"

"No sleeping with wet hair, ever again." She turned it on and got down to business, efficiently silencing his pissed off objections with the roaring noise. It happened that those objections were his explanations about the effects that the drying had on his hair, and why it should be left to dry naturally, because it took only two minutes before it was dry. And fluffy. And almost completely curled.

"Oops." That was only thing Sophie could say without bursting into laughter, and Nate and Hardison had the very demanding task of staying serious. Sophie tapped him on his head, lightly, trying to see if there was a chance to lessen the curls somehow, avoiding looking at his face, his lips in a tight line. No chance. She quickly gave him an elastic to put the hair into a ponytail, before Parker, still busy in the kitchen, came and saw him. He shot her a murderous glare, for good measure.

"And now…" she snapped her fingers, the cue for Parker to come with a giant bowl. "We made you lunch. _We_. Together, two of us. No more ordering the food – Betsy agreed, in case you wondered. From now on, you eat only home-cooked meals."

Nate watcher her – her eyes were laced with pure _innocence_ – there was no chance that Eliot wouldn't flinch seeing that. He indeed eyed her very cautiously, with narrowed eyes, but Parker's grin occupied his attention at once.

The thief came closer and put the bowl in his lap, grinning as insanely as she ever did.

Eliot then looked at the two of them at the table, and they both shrugged helplessly. Hardison shook his head in sorrowful support.

He sighed and concentrated on the bowl.

"Sophie, what are those… things… that are floating in this bowl of-" he took a closer look and added after a few seconds of examination. "… soup?"

Sophie peeked into the bowl. "Chicken soup, Eliot. You should recognize it at first glance. Mushroom, paprika and… Parker, what is this brown thing?"

"Have no idea, you put the brown things in it."

"Did not. Brown is not the real color."

"Let's call it extremely an brown mushroom, okay?"

"In chicken soup?" Eliot said still looking down into the bowl.

Parker raised her hand. "I made noodles," she said proudly. "I tried to shape them like little heads, but they kinda… overcooked with the rest of things. I tried to preserve it with pumpkin oil, but it didn't work." Parker perched herself on the bed, took the spoon and stirred the soup. Even from the table, Nate could see something greasy looking falling down slowly. "Look, here's sliced red cabbage. Sophie said the colors are important, and that was the closest thing we could find to blue and purple. Google said it's nutritious."

"Google," Eliot repeated and slowly raised his head. Nate followed his glances – a quick one towards the door, a longer one to the windows. Checking the escape routes, not so routine this time. However, he couldn't blame him at all; those two were crowding around him, waiting for him to eat, and even from this distance he could see his eyes starting to glaze completely while he discovered more suspicious ingredients.

"Actually, we ran out of chicken more than seven days ago," Nate said, turning the newspaper.

"What?" Sophie turned to him. "We found some in your freezer."

"I have no idea what you found, but it definitely wasn't the chicken. And we'll need the chicken, and more vegetables, and not to forget the healthy spices. You two should go and see that we have everything needed. I… I'm not sure what to buy."

"Men," Sophie sighed, and turned to Eliot again. "You. Eat it. It's not perfect, but we'll get better with practice, we'll cook every day. And don't get unnerved by those… what do you call those things that you used… Indian… walnuts? That you used with the eggs and beans?"

His eyes widened in horror. "I've never combined-"

"Never mind. Just eat it, it's full of B vitamins, we checked," she smiled at him gently before leaving him, grabbing her purse and jacket. "Come on, Parker, you'll have help me choose the yellow things, I'm not fond of yellow food. Tomorrow we shall try something that's based on A and C vitamins, but salty – that will be a real challenge, to balance the C vitamin and salt with…"

Her voice trailed off as they left, closing the door behind them.

"Hardison?" Nate said to the other good cop.

"I ordered a pizza and delivery is on the way already, but we'll have to eat very quickly."

Nate looked at Eliot who carefully touched something in the bowl, and almost dropped the spoon when the thing turned on the surface revealing something that made him hold out his hand as far as he could.

"Flush it?" Hardison quickly came to the rescue and took a bowl from him, not daring to peek into it.

"No, bury it in the backyard and pour cement on it," Eliot whispered. "I swear something _moved_ in the depths of that bowl."

Hardison shook his head. "I'll have to ask Betsy if she mixed some morphine in that IV, man."

"Yeah? Okay, you eat it then. It _moved_, Hardison."

"Right, the return of the Chicken Kraken King, part two, The revenge of the cut-off tentacle. Seriously, man, what's wrong with you?"

"I saw a tiny leg," Eliot murmured.

"Chicken have legs, it walks on them, and we eat them. Nate, did you allow him to drink Jack again?"

"It had _toes_, Hardison."

"Nate!"

"_Wriggling_ toes."

"Jesus."

Hardison went back to the table, and at the moment he turned away, Eliot's face lost its smile. He bit his lip, looking somewhere in front of him, and Nate just watched and waited.

Nate didn't tell them that there was a strong possibility Eliot would reject this play, he didn't want to drown their spirits. The hitter might not have been in the right state of mind for accepting any challenges.

He didn't tell them, either, that no little game could kill the demons, nor help in that battle.

This was useful only because of one thing: it would tell him if Eliot _wanted_ to pull himself from that swamp that held him, and if he was able to fight against it. More importantly, would he accept their help with it. After all, food as the target of their attack wasn't important at all, they could do anything else; it was important that Eliot saw they were doing something, that they were striving… and Nate knew him. _If_ he accepted their play, probably not wanting it at all, he'd answer their challenge because of their effort. He would do that for them – like he always did.

So he sat, watched him, and waited, trying not to expect anything.

It took ten minutes before Eliot raised his eyes from the blanket he was studiously watching, and looked at him. And a tired smile flew over his face for a second. Nate was careful not to show any relief that he felt.

"Nate," he said quietly. "I'll need a few things."

He nodded to the table. "The first drawer."

He shot him a cautious look and opened the drawer, pulling out a mirror, some paper and a pen. He stayed still for a few seconds, staring at the things, then looked at him again.

No, Eliot didn't have to say anything – the time for words for the two of them passed. They didn't need them anymore. Nate just leaned back in the chair, watching Eliot who leaned back in the pillows.

Then he saw it; a barely visible, amused glint in his eyes, when he politely nodded in acknowledgment.

Eliot slowly sat up and reached his left hand under the mattress, pulling out a scalpel. Nate just raised his eyebrows, thinking how Betsy naively fell for the decoys under the pillow, when Eliot opened the lowest drawer and took a bottle of beer from it, opening it with the scalpel. _What the hell_… He never had any beer in his table.

Yep, that glint in his eyes was definitely a challenge, and Nate smiled, raising his glass.

This would be a very interesting few weeks, he said to himself, watching the first evil grin on Eliot's face since this shit started, when he raised his bottle in salute.

His hands were still shaking, but somehow, Nate knew that in that moment it became just another enemy that had to be beaten, just one more fight that would be won, it would end.

After all, only the enemy that Eliot really fought, was Eliot Spencer. The four of them could distract the devil while Eliot was busy with the real fight, the real opponent.

And _their_ Eliot was a winner.

.

.

.

Eliot took the papers and the pen but stopped before writing, surprised by something familiar. Yep, that was definitely an annoyance, familiar, old, known, feeling that was a sign and reminder of better times. _Idiots_. He was obviously condemned to deal with those wackos for the rest of his life – cosmic justice of some weird, sadistic kind. Yet, he brought it upon himself, it was exclusively his fault. He ignored all the warnings at the beginning, when there was a chance to just leave, before they crawled under his skin, before he started to _car__e_ - and then it was too late.

The heart was supposed to be a muscle that pumped blood, nothing more and nothing less, and it worked that way until they stole it, stabbed at it, put it in the microwave and returned it as something that was tuned to them. And with the life of its own.

He really hoped he would survive their saving him. Not that he could be _saved_; nope, he would just prolong those years that they gave to him, and he would try to make them worthy of… something.

Worthy of them. _Ruthless criminal scum_.

Some gifts could be repaid only by taking them.

_And some required a Facebook account, Jesus_. How, _how_ he was supposed to do that without Hardison finding out? He had no idea what that thing was, for crying out loud, which meant he would have to use his phone to Google it, and Hardison would find his search and get curious and… Jesus.

He put away the paper and rubbed his face trying to ebb away the headache. Tomorrow, when he tried to stand up again, he would definitely shave, no matter that his hands couldn't hold the damn razor steady; tilting blades were a disturbing sight in the mirror. _Well, disturbing things were nothing new in his life, right_? It took only that, just the memory of looking at his own eyes in the mirror, to cut off his breathing again, and leave him lost inside the darkness that engulfed everything except the cold touch of the scalpel that was ready to be thrown, and smell of a damp back street. And fear.

"To keep walking," he heard himself say, and blinked, returning to present.

Sophie was standing in front of him, and he could swear she was nowhere near during past two seconds. _Yeah, right, two seconds_…"What?" he asked, trying to look normal, just slightly absent.

"Oh, nothing," the grifter smiled. "I just asked you what your suggestion was for someone who walked into Hell." Her smile widened to that brilliant, warm flash that couldn't be left without the same answer. "_Totally_ unrelated to anything, of course, it just came to my mind. Though, I like your answer." _Damn you, Soph, he had to smile back_. "Are you ready for supper? Hardison prepared something that he called 'The Orkish delight with a touch of Mazarbul scent'. It looks… dark."

With that, she shot him one more brilliant smile, turned on her heel and went back to the kitchen, leaving after her the scent of her perfume, much, much stronger than she used it usually. He doubted that the real gunpowder could cover it, and smiled again.

They were taking no prisoners, and playing their game was the only way to survive it - _for Christ's sake, a vitamin based menu_ - but he couldn't erase the grin he felt on his face, just like he couldn't get rid of the warmth that was melting sharp, icy blades stabbed in his heart.

He sighed, took the paper again, and wrote the heading.

APARTMENT 2a – A SURVIVAL GUIDE (or how to, _again_, kill your own team (_idiots)_ in ten easy steps, this time studiously, brutally and _willing_ to do it.)

He had fifteen paragraphs ready without thinking, and ten recipes that would make their life a living hell, he realized, pretty much amused with everything that came to his mind, and he raised his eyes to the plant on the table.

"George, we're so screwed," he said quietly.

George grinned silently, looking forward to the fight.

**THE END**


End file.
